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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT  OF 


WILLIAM  OILMAN  THOMPSON. 


Library, 

Of  CUIftcn)*' 


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Lorraine,  Lorraine,  Lorree. 

[The  following  ballad  was  written  by  Charles  Kings- 
ley  while  on  his  visit  to  the  United  States.  It  was  the  last 
thing  that  Mr.  Kingsley  wrote,  and  is  not  usually  to  be 
found  in  the  published  editions  of  his  works.] 

"  'Are  you  ready  for  your  steeple  chase,  Lorraine, 

Lorraine,  Lorree  ? 
Baruni,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum, 

Baree* 
You're  booked  to  ride  your  capping  race  today  at 

Coulterleo. 
You're  booked  to  ride  Vindictive,  for  all  the  worljl 

to  see,  V 

To  keep  him  straight  and  keep  him  first,  and  win  the 

run  for  me. 
Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum, 

Baroe. 

'■  She  clasped  l|er  now-born  baby,  poor  Lorraine, 
Lorraine,  Lorree, 
Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum,  Barum, 
Baree. 
'1  cannot  ride  Vindictive,  as  any  man  might  see. 
And  I  will  not  ride  Vindictive,  with  this  baby  on 

my  knee; 
He's  killed  a  boy^Jie's  killed  a  man,  and  why  must 
he  kill  me?' 

'*  'Unless  you  ride  Vindictive,  Lorraine,  Lorraine, 

Lorree. 
Unless  you  ride  Vindictive,  to-day  at  Coulterlee, 
And  land  him  safe  across  the  brook,  and  win  the 

blank  for  me, 
It's  you  may  keep  your  bitby,  for  you'll  get  no  help 

from  me.' 

"  'That  husbands  could  be  cruel,'  said  Lorraine, 
Lorraine,  Lorree,  ^^   . 

'That  husbands  could  be  cruel,  I.have  known  for  sea- 
sons three; 

But  oh!  to  ride  Vindictive  while  a  baby  cries  for  me, 

And  be  killed  across  a  fence  at  last,  for  all  the 
world  to  see!' 

"  She  mastered  young  Vindictive.  Oh!  the  gallant 
lass  was  she. 

And  kept  him  straight  and  won  the  race  as  near  as 
near  could  be  ; 

But  he  killed  her  at  the  brook  against  a  pollard  wil- 
low tree. 

Oh!  he  killed  her  at  the  brook,  the  brute,  for  all  the 
world  to  see, 

And  no  one  but  the  baby  cried  for  poor  Lorraine. 
Lorree." 

—Charles  Kingtley. 


POEMS 


BY 


CHARLES    KINGSLEY, 


AUTHOR   OF   '*AMYAS   LEIGH,"    "  HYPATIA,"   &C. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 

MDCCCLVI. 


RIVERSIDE,   CAMBRIDGE: 

ITEREOTYPED  AND    PRINTED     BY 

H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND   COMPANY. 


author's  edition. 


?R 


H^i 


p(^3 


HA  //O 


CONTENTS. 

Saint's  Tragedy 25 

MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

THE    SANDS    OF   DEE 233 

THE    THREE   FISHERS            ......  235 

WEARILY  STRETCHES   THE   SAND             ....  236 

SAPPHO 238 

A    MYTH 240 

THE   angler's   QUESTIONS 241 

THE   word's   answer  .  .  .  .  .  .241 

THE   DEAD    CHURCH 242 

A   PARABLE   FROM   LIEBIG 243 

THERE   SITS   A   BIRD 244 

TWIN   STARS   ALOFT 245 

YOUNG  MARY 246 

THE   MERRY  LARK  WAS   UP  AND   SINGING  .  .247 

EPICEDIUM   ON   THE   DEATH   OF  A  CERTAIN  JOURNAL  248 

A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL .  250 

MY   HUNTING   SONG 252 

SONGS 253 

THE   UGLY   PRINCESS 254 

A   THOUGHT   FROM   THE   RHINE 255 

SONNET 256 


4  CONTENTS. 

BALLADS. 

A.  D.  415.         OVER   THE   CAMP  FIRES     ....  259 

A.D.I  100.      EVIL   SPED   THE   BATTLE   PLAY      .           .  266 

A.  D.  1400.      EARL   HALDAN'S   DAUGHTER      .           .           .  268 

A.  D.  1500.      THE   DEER   STEALER       ....  270 

A.  D.  1580.      AH   TYRANT   LOVE     .           .           .           .           .  274 

A.D.I  740.      THE   LAST   BUCCANEER            .           .           .  275 

A.  D.  1848.      A   ROUGH   RHYME   ON  A  ROUGH   MATTER  278 

THE   people's   song,   1849          .           .           .           .           .  282 

THE   DAY  OP   THE   LORD 283 


THE 


SAINT'S  tragedy: 


OB, 


THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  ELIZABETH  OF  HUNGARY, 


LANDGRAVINE  OF  THURINGIA, 


SAINT    OP   THE    ROMISH    CALENDAR. 


PREFACE 


SAINT'S     TRAGEDY 


REV.  F.  D.  MAURICE,  M.A. 


The  writer  of  this  play  does  not  differ  with  his  countrymen 
generally,  as  to  the  nature  and  requirements  of  a  Drama.  He 
has  learnt  from  our  Great  Masters  that  it  should  exhibit  human 
beings  emraired  in  some  earnest  struggle,  certain  outward 
aspects  of  which  may  possibly  be  a  spectacle  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  idlers,  but  which  in  itself  is  for  the  study  and  sympa- 
thy of  those  who  are  struggling  themselves.  A  Drama,  he 
feels,  should  not  aim  at  the  inculcation  of  any  definite  maxim; 
the  moral  of  it  lies  in  the  action  and  the  character.  It  must 
be  drawn  out  of  them  by  the  heart  and  experience  of  the 
reader,  not  forced  upon  him  by  the  author.  The  men  and 
women  whom  he  presents  are  not  to  be  his  spokesmen ;  they 
are  to  utter  themselves  freely  in  such  language,  grave  or 
mirthful,  as  best  expresses  what  they  feel  and  what  they  are. 
The  age  to  which  they  belong  is  neither  to  be  contemplated  as 
if  it  were  apart  from  us,  nor  is  it  to  be  measured  by  our  rules, 


8  PREFACE. 

neither  to  be  held  up  as  a  model,  nor  to  be  condemned  for  its 
strangeness.  The  passions  which  worked  in  it  must  be  those 
which  are  working  in  ourselves.  To  the  same  eternal  laws 
and  principles  are  we,  and  it,  amenable.  By  beholding  these 
a  poet  is  to  raise  himself,  and  may  hope  to  raise  his  readers, 
above  antiquarian  tastes  and  modern  conventions.  The  unity 
of  the  play  cannot  be  conferred  upon  it  by  any  artificial 
arrangements  ;  it  must  depend  upon  the  relation  of  the  differ- 
ent persons  and  events  to  the  central  subject.  No  nice  ad- 
justments of  success  and  failure  to  right  and  wrong  must 
constitute  its  poetical  justice.  In  some  deeper  way  than  this, 
if  at  all,  must  the  conscience  of  the  readers  be  satisfied  that 
there  is  an  order  in  the  universe,  and  that  the  poet  has  per- 
ceived and  asserted  it. 

Long  before  these  principles  were  reduced  into  formal 
canons  of  orthodoxy,  even  while  they  encountered  the  strong 
opposition  of  critics,  they  were  unconsciously  recognized  by 
Englishmen  as  sound  and  national.  Yet  I  question  whether  a 
clergyman,  writing  in  conformity  with  them,  might  not  have 
incurred  censure  in  former  times,  and  may  not  incur  it  now. 
The  privilege  of  expressing  his  own  thoughts,  sufferings,  sym- 
pathies, in  any  form  of  verse  is  easily  conceded  to  him  ;  if  he 
liked  to  use  a  dialogue  instead  of  a  monologue,  for  the  purpose 
of  enforcing  a  duty,  or  illustrating  a  doctrine,  no  one  would 
find  fault  with  him ;  if  he  produced  an  actual  Drama  for  the 
purpose  of  defending  or  denouncing  a  particular  character, 
or  period,  or  system  of  opinions,  the  compliments  of  one 
party  might  console  him  for  the  abuse  or  contempt  of  another. 

But  it  seems  to  be  supposed  that  he  is  bound  to  keep  in 
view  one  or  other  of  these  ends :  while  to  divest  himself  of 
his  own  individuality  that  he  may  enter  into  the  working  of 
other  spirits  ;  to  lay  aside  the  authority  which  pronounces  one 


PREFACE.  '9 

opinion,  or  one  habit  of  mind,  to  be  right  and  another  wrong, 
that  he  may  exhibit  them  in  their  actual  strife ;  to  deal  with 
questions,  not  in  an  abstract  shape,  but  mixed  up  with  the 
affections,  passions,  relations  of  human  creatures  —  is  a  course 
which  must  lead  him,  it  is  thought,  into  a  great  forgetfulness 
of  his  office,  and  of  all  that  is  involved  in  it. 

No  one  can  have  less  interest  than  I  have  in  claiming 
poetical  privileges  for  the  clergy ;  and  no  one,  I  believe,  is 
more  thoroughly  convinced  that  the  standard  which  society 
prescribes  for  us,  and  to  which  we  ordinarily  conform  our- 
selves, instead  of  being  too  severe  and  lofty,  is  far  too  secular 
and  grovelling.  But  I  apprehend  the  limitations  of  this  kind 
which  are  imposed  upon  us  are  themselves  exceedingly  secu- 
lar, betokening  an  entire  misconception  of  the  nature  of  our 
work,  proceeding  from  maxims  and  habits  which  tend  to 
make  it  utterly  insignificant  and  abortive.  If  a  man  confines 
himself  to  the  utterance  of  his  own  experiences,  those  experi- 
ences are  likely  to  become  every  day  more  narrow  and  less 
real.  If  he  confines  himself  to  the  defence  of  certain  propo- 
sitions, he  is  sure  gradually  to  lose  all  sense  of  the  connection 
between  those  propositions  and  his  own  life,  or  the  life  of  man. 
In  either  case  he  becomes  utterly  ineffectual  as  a  teacher. 
Those  whose  education  and  character  are  different  from  his 
own,  whose  processes  of  mind  have  therefore  been  different, 
are  utterly  unintelligible  to  him.  Even  a  cordial  desire  for 
sympathy  is  not  able  to  break  through  the  prickly  hedge  of 
habits,  notions,  and  technicalities,  which  separates  them.  Often- 
times the  desire  itself  is  extinguished  in  those  who  ought  to 
cherish  it  most,  by  the  fear  of  meeting  with  something  por- 
tentous or  dangerous.  Nor  can  he  defend  a  dogma  better 
than  he  communes  with  men ;  for  he  knows  not  that  which 
attacks  it.     He  supposes  it  to  be  a  set  of  book  arguments, 


10  PREFACE. 

whereas  it  is  something  lying  very  deep  in  the  heart  of  the 
disputant,  into  which  he  has  never  penetrated. 

Hence  there  is  a  general  complaint  that  we  "  are  ignorant 
of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  our  contemporaries ; "  most 
attribute  this  to  a  fear  of  looking  below  the  surface,  lest  we 
should  find  hollo wness  within ;  many  like  to  have  it  so,  be- 
cause they  have  thus  an  excuse  for  despising  us.  But  surely 
such  an  ignorance  is  more  inexcusable  in  us,  than  in  the 
priests  of  any  nation  :  we,  less  than  any,  are  kept  from  the 
sun  and  air ;  our  discipline  is  less  than  any  contrived  merely 
to  make  us  acquainted  with  the  commonplaces  of  divinity. 
We  are  enabled,  nay,  obliged,  from  our  youth  upwards,  to 
mix  with  people  of  our  own  age,  who  are  destined  for  all 
occupations  and  modes  of  life  ;  to  share  in  their  studies,  their 
enjoyments,  their  perplexities,  their  temptations.  Experience, 
often  so  dearly  bought,  is  surely  not  meant  to  be  thrown  away : 
whether  it  has  been  obtained  without  the  sacrifice  of  that 
which  is  most  precious,  or  whether  the  lost  blessing  has  been 
restored  twofold,  and  good  is  understood,  not  only  as  the  oppo- 
site of  evil,  but  as  the  deliverance  from  it,  we  cannot  be  meant 
to  forget  all  that  we  have  been  learning.  The  teachers  of 
other  nations  may  reasonably  mock  us,  as  having  less  of  direct 
book-lore  than  themselves;  they  should  not  be  able  to  say, 
that  we  are  without  the  compensation  of  knowing  a  little  more 
of  living  creatures. 

A  clergyman,  it  seems  to  me,  should  be  better  able  than 
other  men  to  cast  aside  that  which  is  merely  accidental,  either 
in  his  own  character,  or  in  the  character  of  the  age  to  which 
he  belongs,  and  to  apprehend  that  which  is  essential  and 
eternal.  His  acceptance  of  fixed  creeds,  which  belong  as 
much  to  one  generation  as  another,  and  which  have  survived 
amid  all  changes  and  convulsions,  should  raise  him  especially 


PREFACE.  11 

above  the  temptation  to  exalt  the  fashion  of  his  own  time,  or 
of  any  past  one  ;  above  the  affectatioA  of  the  obsolete,  above 
slavery  to  the  present,  and  above  that  strange  mixture  of  both 
which  some  display,  who  weep  because  the  beautiful  visions 
of  the  Past  are  departed,  and  admire  themselves  for  being 
able  to  weep  over  them  —  and  dispense  with  them.  His  rev- 
erence for  the  Bible  should  make  him  feel  that  we  most  realize 
our  own  personality  when  we  most  connect  it  with  that  of  our 
fellow-men  ;  that  acts  are  not  to  be  contemplated  apart  from 
the  actor;  that  more  of  what  is  acceptable  to  the  God  of 
Truth  may  come  forth  in  men  striving  with  infinite  confusion 
and  often  uttering  words  like  the  east  wind,  than  in  those  who 
can  discourse  calmly  and  eloquently  about  a  righteousness 
and  mercy  which  they  know  only  by  hearsay.  The  belief 
which  a  minister  of  God  has  in  the  eternity  of  the  distinction 
between  right  and  wrong  shoul(;^  especially  dispose  him  to 
recognize  that  distinction  apart  from  mere  circumstance  and 
opinion.  The  confidence  which  he  m^ist  have  that  the  life  of 
each  man,  and  the  life  of  this  world,  is  a  drama,  in  which  a 
perfectly  Good  and  True  Being  is  unveiling  His  own  pur- 
poses, and  carrying  on  a  conflict  with  evil,  which  must  issue  in 
complete  victory,  should  make  him  eager  to  discover  in  every 
portion  of  history,  in  every  biography,  a  divine  "  Morality  '* 
and  "  Mystery  "  —  a  morality,  though  it  deals  with  no  abstract 
personages  —  a  mystery,  though  the  subject  of  it  be  the  doings 
of  the  most  secular  men. 

The  subject  of  this  Play  is  certainly  a  dangerous  one.  It 
suggests  questions  which  are  deeply  interesting  at  the  present 
time.  It  involves  the  whole  character  and  spirit  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  A  person  who  had  not  an  enthusiastic  admiration  for 
the  character  of  Elizabeth  would  not  be  worthy  to  speak  of 
her ;  it  seems  to  me,  that  he  would  be  still  less  worthy,  if  he 


12  PREFACE. 

did  not  admire  far  more  fervently  that  ideal  of  the  female 
character  which  God  has  established,  and  not  man  —  -which 
she  imperfectly  realized  —  which  often  exhibited  itself  in  her 
in  spite  of  her  own  more  confused,  though  apparently  more 
lofty  ideal ;  which  may  be  manifested  more  simply,  and  there- 
fore more  perfectly,  in  the  England  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, than  in  the  Germany  of  the  thirteenth.  To  enter  into 
the  meaning  of  self-sacrifice  —  to  sympathize  with  any  one 
who  aims  at  it  —  not  to  be  misled  by  counterfeits  of  it  —  not 
to  be  UMJust  to  the  truth  which  may  be  mixed  with  those 
counterfeits  —  is  a  difficult  task,  but  a  necessary  one  for  any 
one  who  takes  this  work  in  hand.  How  far  our  author  has 
attained  these  ends,  others  must  decide.  I  am  sure  that  he 
will  not  have  failed  from  forgetting  them.  H^  has,  I  believe, 
faithfully  studied  all  the  documents  of  the  period  within  his 
reach,  making  little  use  of  modern  narratives  ;  he  has  medi- 
tated upon  the  past  in  its  connection  with  the  present ;  has 
never  allowed  his  reading  to  become  dry  by  disconnecting  it 
with  what  he  has  seen  and  felt,  or  made  his  partial  experi- 
ences a  measure  for  the  acts  which  they  help  him  to  under- 
stand. He  has  entered  upon  his  work  at  least  in  a  true  and 
faithful  spirit,  not  regarding  it  as  an  amusement  for  leisure 
hours,  but  as  something  to  be  done  seriously,  if  done  at  all ; 
as  if  he  was  as  much  "  under  the  Great  Taskmaster's  eye  ** 
in  this  as  in  any  other  duty  of  his  calling.  In  certain  passages 
and  scenes  he  seemed  to  me  to  have  been  a  little  too  bold  for 
the  taste  and  temper  of  this  age.  But  having  written  them 
deUberately,  from  a  conviction  that  morality  is  in  peril  from 
fastidiousness,  and  that  it  is  not  safe  to  look  at  questions  which 
are  really  agitating  people's  hearts  merely  from  the  outside  — 
he  has,  and  I  believe  rightly,  retained  what  I  should,  from 
cowardice,  have  wished  him  to  exclude.     1  have  no  doubt,  that 


PREFACE.  13 

any  one  who  wins  a  victory  over  the  fear  of  opinion,  and 
especially  over  the  opinion  of  the  religious  world,  strengthens 
his  own  moral  character,  and  acquirers  a  greater  fitness  for  his 
high  service. 

Whether  Poetry  is  again  to  revive  among  us,  or  whether 
the  power  is  to  be  wholly  stifled  by  our  accurate  notions  about 
the  laws  and  conditions  under  which  it  is  to  be  exercised,  is  a 
question  upon  which  there  is  room  for  great  differences  of 
opinion.  Judging  from  the  past,  I  should  suppose  that  till 
Poetry  becomes  less  self-conscious,  less  self-concentrated,  more 
dramatical  in  spirit,  if  not  in  form,  it  will  not  have  the  quali- 
ties which  can  powerfully  affect  Englishmen.  Not  only  were 
the  Poets  of  our  most  national  age  dramatists,  but  there  seems 
an  evident  dramatical  tendency  in  those  who  wrote  what  we 
are  wont  to  call  narrative,  or  epic,  poems.  Take  away  the 
dramatic  faculty  from  Chaucer,  and  the  Canterbury  Tales 
become  indeed,  what  they  have  been  most  untruly  called, 
mere  versions  of  French  or  Italian  Fables.  JVIilton  may  hare 
been  right  in  changing  the  form  of  Paradise  Lost,  —  we  are 
bound  to  believe  that  he  was  right ;  for  what  appeal  can  there 
be  against  his  genius  ?  But  he  could  not  destroy  the  essentially 
dramatic  character  of  a  work  which  sets  forth  the  battle  be- 
tween good  and  evil,  and  the  Will  of  Man  at  once  the  Theatre 
and  the  Prize  of  the  conflict.  Is  it  not  true,  that  there  is  in 
the  very  substance  of  the  English  mind,  that  which  naturally 
predisposes  us  to  sympathy  with  the  Drama,  and  this  though 
we  are,  perhaps,  the  most  untheatrical  of  all  people  ?  The  love 
of  action,  the  impatience  of  abstraction,  the  equity  which  leads 
us  to  desire  that  e\ery  one  may  have  a  fair  hearing,  the  re- 
serve which  had  rather  detect  personal  experience  than  have 
it  announced  —  tendencies  all  easily  perverted  to  evil,  often 
leading  to  results  the  most  contradictory,  yet  capable  of  the 


14  PREFACE. 

noblest  cultivation,  seem  to  explain  the  fact,  that  writers  of 
this  kind  should  have  flourished  so  greatly  among  us,  and  that 
scarcely  any  others  should  permanently  interest  us. 

These  remarks  do  not  concern  poetical  literature  alone,  or 
chiefly.  Those  habits  of  mind,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  ought 
to  make  us  the  best  historians.  If  Germany  has  a  right  to 
claim  the  whole  realm  of  the  abstract,  if  Frenchmen  under- 
stand the  framework  of  society  better  than  we  do,  there  is  in 
the  national  dramas  of  Shakspeare  an  historical  secret  which 
neither  the  philosophy  of  the  one  nor  the  acute  observation 
of  the  other  can  discover.  Yet  these  dramas  are  almost  the 
only  satisfactory  expression  of  that  historical  faculty,  which,  I 
believe,  is  latent  in  us.  The  zeal  of  our  factions,  a  result  of 
our  national  activity,  has  made  earnest  history  dishonest ;  our 
English  justice  has  fled  to  indiSerent  and  skeptical  writers  for 
the  impartiality  which  it  sought  in  vain  elsewhere.  This 
resource  has  failed,  —  the  indifferentism  of  Hume  could  not 
secure  him  against  his  Scotch  prejudices,  or  against  gross 
unfairness  when  any  thing  disagreeably  positive  and  vehement 
came  in  his  way.  Moreover,  a  practical  people  demand  move- 
ment and  life,  not  mere  judging  and  balancing.  For  a  time 
there  was  a  reaction  in  favour  of  party  history,  but  it  could 
not  last  long  ;  already  we  are  glad  to  seek  in  Ranke  or  Miche- 
let  that  which  seems  denied  us  at  home.  Much,  no  doubt, 
may  be  gained  from  such  sources ;  but  I  am  convinced  that 
this  is  not  the  produce  which  we  are  meant  generally  to  im- 
port ;  for  this  we  may  trust  to  well-directed  native  industry. 
The  time  is,  I  hope,  at  hand,  when  those  who  are  most  in 
earnest  will  feel  that  therefore  they  are  most  bound  to  be 
just  —  when  they  will  confess  the  exceeding  wickedness  of 
the  desire  to  extort  or  suppress  a  fact,  or  misrepresent  a  char- 
acter—  when  they  will  ask  as  solemnly  to  be  delivered  from 


PREFACE.  15 

the  temptation  to  this,  as  to  any  crime  which  is  punished  by- 
law. 

The  clergy  ought  especially  to  lead  the  way  in  this  refor- 
mation. They  have  erred  grievously  in  perverting  history  to 
their  own  purposes.  What  was  a  sin  in  others  was  in  them  a 
blasphemy,  because  they  professed  to  acknowledge  God  as  the 
Ruler  of  the  world,  and  hereby  they  showed  that  they  valued 
their  own  conclusions  above  the  facts  which  reveal  His  order. 
They  owe,  therefore,  a  great  amende  to  their  country,  and 
they  should  consider  seriously  how  they  can  make  it  most 
effectually.  I  look  upon  this  Play  as  an  effort  in  this  direc- 
tion, which  I  trust  may  be  followed  by  many  more.  On  this 
ground  alone,  even  if  its  poetical  worth  was  less  than  I  believe 
it  is,  I  should,  as  a  clergyman,  be  thankful  for  its  publication. 

F.  D.M. 


INTRODUCTION 


SAINT'S     TRAGEDY 


The  story  whicli  I  have  here  put  into  a  dramatic  form 
is  one  familiar  to  Romanists,  and  perfectly  and  circum- 
stantially authenticated.  Abridged  versions  of  it,  care- 
fully softened  and  sentimentalized,  may  be  read  in  any 
Romish  collection  of  Lives  of  the  Saints.  An  enlarged 
edition  has  been  published  in  France,  I  believe  by  Count 
Montalembert,  and  translated,  with  illustrations,  by  an 
Enghsh  gentleman.  From  consulting  this  work  I  have 
hitherto  abstained,  in  order  that  I  might  draw  my  facts 
and  opinions,  entire  and  unbiased,  from  the  original 
Biography  of  EUzabeth,  by  Dietrich  of  Appold,  her 
contemporary,  as  given  entire  by  Canisius. 

Dietrich  was  born  in  Thuringia,  near  the  scene  of 
Elizabeth's  labours,  a  few  years  before  her  death,  had 
conversed  with  those  who  had  seen  her,  and  calls  to 
witness  "  God  and  the  elect  angels,"  that  he  had  inserted 
notliing  but  what  he  had  either  understood  from  religious 
2 


18  INTHODUCTION 

and  veracious  persons,  or  read  in  approved  writings,  viz ; 
"  TTie  Book  of  the  Sayings  of  JEUzabeth's  Four  Ladies 
(  Guta,  Isentrudis,  and  two  others.)'^  "  The  Letter  which 
Conrad  of  Marpurg,  her  Director^  wrote  to  Pope  Gregory 
the  Ninth.'^  (These  two  documents  still  exist.)  "  The 
Sermon  of  Otto"  {de  Ordine  Prcedic.)  ^^  which  begins 
thus,  Mulierem  fortem." 

"  Not  satisfied  with  these,"  he  "  visited  monasteries, 
castles,  and  towns,  interrogated  the  most  aged  and  vera- 
cious persons,  and  wrote  letters,  seeking  for  completeness 
and  truth  in  all  things;"  and  thus  composed  his  biog-, 
raphj,  from  which  that  in  Surius,  (^Acta  Sanctorum^ 
Jacobus  de  Voragine,  Alban  Butler,  and  all  others  which 
I  have  seen,  are  copied  with  a  very  few  additions  and 
many  prudent  omissions. 

Wishing  to  adhere  strictly  to  historical  truth,  I  have 
followed  the  received  account,  not  only  in  the  incidents, 
but  often  in  the  language  which  it  attributes  to  its  vari- 
ous characters ;  and  have  given  in  the  Notes  all  neces- 
sary references  to  the  biography  in  Canisius's  collection. 
My  part  has  therefore  been  merely  to  show  how  the 
conduct  of  my  heroine  was  not  only  possible,  but  to  a 
certain  degree  necessary,  for  a  character  of  earnestness 
and  piety  such  as  hers,  working  under  the  influences  of 
the  Middle  Age. 

In  deducing  fairly,  from  the  phenomena  of  her  life, 
the  character  of  Elizabeth,  she  necessai-ily  became  a 
type  of  two  great  mental  struggles  of  the  Middle  Age  ; 
first,  of   that  between   Scriptural   or   unconscious,    and 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

Popish  or  conscious,  purity ;  in  a  word,  between  inno- 
cence and  prudery ;  next,  of  the  struggle  between  heaUhy 
human  affection,  and  the  Manichean  contempt  with 
which  a  ceUbate  clergy  would  have  all  men  regard  the 
names  of  husband,  wife,  and  parent.  To  exhibit  this 
latter  falsehood  in  its  miserable  consequences,  when  re- 
ceived into  a  heart  of  insight  and  determination  sufficient 
to  follow  out  all  belief  to  its  ultimate  practice,  is  the 
main  object  of  my  Poem.  That  a  most  degrading  and 
agonizing  contradiction  on  these  points  must  have  ex- 
isted in  the  mind  of  Ehzabeth,  and  of  aU  who  with 
similar  characters  shall  have  found  themselves  under 
similar  influences,  is  a  necessity  that  must  be  evident  to 
all  who  know  any  thing  of  the  deeper  affections  of  men. 
In  the  idea  of  a  married  Romish  saint,  these  miseries 
should  follow  logically  from  the  Romish  view  of  human 
relations.  In  EUzabeth's  case,  their  existence  is  proved 
equally  logically  from  the  acknowledged  facts  of  her 
conduct. 

I  may  here  observe,  that  if  I  have  in  no  case  made 
her  allude  to  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  exhibited  the  sense 
of  infinite  duty  and  loyalty  to  Christ  alone,  as  the  main- 
spring of  all  her  noblest  deeds,  it  is  merely  in  accord- 
ance with  Dietrich's  biography.  The  omission  of  all 
Mariolatry  is  remarkable.  My  business  is  to  copy  that 
omission,  as  I  should  in  the  opposite  case  have  copied 
the  introduction  of  Virgin-worship  into  the  original  tale. 
The  business  of  those  who  make  Mary,  to  women  espe- 
cially, the  complete  substitute  for  the  Saviour,  —  I  had 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

almost  said,  for  all  Three  Persons  of  the  Trinity,  is  to 
explain,  if  they  can,  her  non-appearance  in  this  case. 

Lewis,  again,  I  have  di'awn  as  I  found  him,  possessed 
of  all  virtues  but  those  of  action;  in  knowledge,  in 
moral  courage,  in  spiritual  attainment,  infinitely  inferior 
to  his  wife,  and  depending  on  her  to  be  taught  to  pray ; 
giving  her  higher  faculties  nothing  to  rest  on  in  himself, 
and  leaving  the  noblest  offices  of  a  husband  to  be  sup- 
plied by  a  spiritual  director.  He  thus  becomes  a  type 
of  the  husbands  of  the  Middle  Age,  and  of  the  woman- 
worship  of  chivalry.  Woman-worship,  "  the  honour  due 
to  the  weaker  vessel,"  is  indeed  of  God,  and  woe  to  the 
nation  and  to  the  man  in  whom  it  dies.  But  in  the 
Middle  Age,  this  feeling  had  no  religious  root,  by  which 
it  could  connect  itself  rationally,  either  with  actual  wed- 
lock or  wdth  the  noble  yearnings  of  men's  spirits,  ^nd  it 
therefore  could  not  but  die  down  into  a  semi-sensual 
dream  of  female-saint-wbrship,  or  fantastic  idolatry  of 
mere  physical  beauty,  leaving  the  women  themselves  an 
easy  prey  to  the  intellectual  allurements  of  the  more 
educated  and  subtle  priesthood. 

In  Conrad's  case,  again,  I  have  fancied  that  I  discover, 
in  the  various  notices  of  his  life,  a  noble  nature  warped 
and  blinded  by  its  unnatural  exclusions  from  those  family 
ties  through  which  we  first  discern  or  describe  God  and 
our  relations  to  Him,  and  forced  to  concentrate  liis  whole 
faculties  in  the  service,  not  so  much  of  a  God  of  Truth 
as  of  a  Catholic  system.  In  his  character  will  be  found, 
I  hope,  some  implicit  apology  for  the  failings  of  such 


INTRODUCTIOX.  21 

truly  great  men  as  Dunstan,  Beeket,  and  Dominic,  and 
of  many  more  whom,  if  we  hate,  we  shall  never  under- 
stand, while  we  shall  be  but  too  likely,  in  our  own  way, 
to  copy  them. 

Walter  of  Varila,  a  more  fictitious  character,  repre- 
sents the  "  healthy  animalism  "  of  the  Teutonic  mind, 
with  its  mixture  of  deep  earnestness  and  hearty  merri- 
ment. His  dislike  of  priestly  sentimentalities  is  no 
anachronism.  Even  in  his  day,  a  noble  lay-religion, 
founded  on  faith  in  the  divine  and  universal  symbolism 
of  humanity  and  nature,  was  gradually  arising,  and 
venting  itself,  from  time  to  time,  as  I  conceive,  through 
many  most  unsuspected  channels,  through  chivalry, 
through  the  minne-singers,  through  the  lay-inventors,  or 
rather  importers,  of  pomted  architecture,  through  the 
German  school  of  painting,  through  the  politics  of  the 
free-towns,  till  it  attained  complete  freedom,  in  Luther 
and  his  associate  reformers. 

For  my  fantastic  quotations  of  Scripture,  if  they  shall 
be  deemed  irreverent,  I  can  only  say,  that  they  were  the 
fashion  of  the  time,  from  prince  to  peasant  —  that  there 
is  scarcely  one  of  them,  with  which  I  have  not  actually 
met  in  the  writings  of  the  period  —  that  those  writings 
abound  with  misuse  of  Scripture,  far  more  coarse,  arbi- 
trary, and  ridiculous,  than  any  which  I  have  dared  to 
insert  —  that  I  had  no  right  to  omit  so  radical  a  charac- 
teristic of  the  Middle  Age.  , 

For  the  more  coarse  and  homely  passages  with  which 
the  drama  is  interspersed,  I  must  make  the  same  apology. 


22  INTRODUCTION. 

I  put  them  there  because  they  were  there  —  because  the 
Middle  Age  was,  in  the  gross,  a  coarse,  barbarous,  and 
profligate  age  —  because  it  was  necessary,  in  order  to 
bring  out  fairly,  the  beauty  of  the  central  character,  to 
show  "  the  crooked  and  perverse  generation,"  in  wliich 
she  was  "  a  child  of  God  without  rebuke."  It  was,  in 
fact,  the  very  ferocity  and  foulness  of  the  time  which, 
by  a  natural  revulsion,  called  forth  at  the  same  time,  the 
apostolic  holiness,  and  the  Manichean  asceticism  of  the 
Medieval  Saints.  The  world  was  so  bad,  that  to  be 
Saints  at  all,  they  were  compelled  to  go  out  of  the  world. 
It  was  necessary,  moreover,  in  depicting  the  poor  man's 
patroness,  to  show  the  material  on  which  she  worked ; 
and  those  who  know  the  poor,  know  also  that  we  can  no 
more  judge  truly  of  their  characters  in  the  presence  of 
their  benefactors,  than  we  can  tell  by  seeing  clay  in  the 
potter's  hands,  what  it  was  in  its  native  pit.  These 
scenes  have,  therefore,  been  laid  principally  in  Eliza- 
beth's absence,- in  order  to  preserve  their  only  use  and 
meaning. 

So  rough  and  common  life  a  picture  of  the  Middle 
Age  will,  I  am  afraid,  whether  faithful  or  not,  be  far 
from  acceptable,  to  those  who  take  their  notions  of  that 
period  principally  from  such  exquisite  dreams  as  the 
fictions  of  Fouqu^,  and  of  certain  modems  whose  grace- 
ful minds,  like  some  enchanted  well. 

In  whose  calm  depths  the  pure  and  beautiful 
Alone  are  mirrored, 

are,  on  account  of  their  very  sweetness  and  simpUcity, 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

singularly  unfitted  to  convey  any  true  likeness  of  the 
coarse  and  stormy  Middle  Age.  I  have  been  ah-eady 
accused,  by  others  than  Romanists,  of  profaning  this 
whole  subject  —  i.  e.  of  telling  the  whole  truth,  pleasant 
or  not,  about  it.  But  really,  time  enough  has  been  lost 
in  ignorant  abuse  of  that  period,  and  time  enough,  also, 
lately,  in  blind  adoration  of  it.  When  shall  we  learn  to 
see  it  as  it  was?  —  the  dawning  manhood  of  Europe  — 
rich  with  all  the  tenderness,  the  simpHcity,  the  enthu- 
siasm of  youth  —  but  also  darkened,  alas !  with  its  full 
share  of  youth's  precipitance  and  extravagance,  fierce 
passions,  and  blind  self-will  —  its  virtues  and  its  vices 
colossal,  and,  for  that  very  reason,  always  haunted  by  the 
twin-imp  of  the  colossal  —  the  caricatured. 

Lastly,  the  many  miraculous  stories  which  the  biog- 
rapher of  EHzabeth  relates  of  her,  I  had  no  right,  for 
the  sake  of  truth,  to  interweave  in  the  plot,  while  it  was 
necessary  to  indicate,  at  least,  their  existence.  I  have, 
therefore,  put  such  of  them  as  seemed  least  absurd  into 
the  mouth  of  Conrad,  to  whom,  in  factj  they  owe  their 
original  publication,  and  have  done  so,  as  I  hope,  not 
without  a  just  ethical  purpose. 

Such  was  my  idea ;  of  the  inconsistencies  and  short- 
comings of  this  its  realization,  no  one  can  ever  be  so 
painfully  sensible,  as  I  am  already  myself.  If,  however, 
this  book  shall  cause  one  Englishman  honestly  to  ask 
himself,  "  I,  as  a  Protestant,  have  been  accustomed  to 
assert  the  purity  and  dignity  of  the  offices  of  husband, 
wife,  and  parent.     Have  I  ever  examined  the  grounds 


24  INTRODUCTION. 

of  my  own  assertion  ?  Do  I  believe  them  to  be,  as  call- 
ings from  God,  spiritual,  sacramental,  divine,  eternal? 
Or  am  I  at  heart  regarding  and  using  them,  like  the 
Papist,  merely  as  heaven's  indulgences  to  the  mfirmities 
of  fallen  man  ?  "  —  Then  will  my  book  have  done  its 
work. 

If,  again,  it  shall  deter  one  young  man  from  the 
example  of  those  miserable  dilettanti,  who  in  books  and 
sermons  are  whimpering  meagre  second-hand  praises  of 
celibacy,  —  depreciating  as  carnal  and  degrading  those 
family  ties,  to  which  they  owe  their  own  existence,  in 
the  enjoyment  of  which  they  themselves  all  the  while 
unblushingly  indulge  —  insulting  thus  their  own  wives 
and  mothers,  —  nibbling  ignorantly  at  the  very  root  of 
that  household  purity,  which  constitutes  the  distinctive 
superiority  of  Protestant  over  Popish  nations  ;  —  again 
my  book  will  have  done  its  work. 

If,  lastly,  it  shall  awake  one  pious  Protestant  to  recog- 
nize, in  some,  at  least,  of  the  Saints  of  the  Middle  Age, 
beings  not  only  of  the  same  passions,  but  of  the  same 
Lord,  the  same  faith,  the  same  baptism,  as  themselves ; 
Protestants,  not  the  less  deep  and  true,  because  utterly 
unconscious  and  practical  —  mighty  witnesses  against  tlie 
two  antichi'ists  of  their  age  —  the  tyranny  of  feudal  caste, 
and  the  phantoms  which  Popery  substitutes  for  the  Uving 
Christ  —  then  also  will  my  little  book  indeed  have  done 
its  work.  C.  K. 


THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY 


CHARACTERS. 


Vassals  of  Lewis. 


Elizabeth,  daughter  of  the  King  of  Hungary. 

Lewis,  Landgrave  of  Thuringia,  betrothed  to  her  in  childhood. 

Henry,  brother  of  Lewis. 

Walter,  of  Varila, 

Rudolf,  the  Cupbearer, 

Leutolf,  of  Erlstetten, 

Hartwig,  of  Erba, 

Count  Hugo, 

Count  of  Saym,  &c. 

Conrad,   of  Marpurg,  a  Monk,  the  Pope's  Commissioner  for 

the  suppression  of  heresy. 
Gerard,  his  Chaplain. 

Bishop  of  Bamberg,  uncle  of  Elizabeth,  ^c.  ^^c. 
Sophia,  Dowager  Landgravine. 
Agnes,  her  daughter,  sister  of  Lewis. 
IsENTRUDis,  Elizabeth's  nurse. 
GuTA,  her  favourite  maiden. 

&c.  &c.  &c. 


The  Scene  lies  principally  in  Eisenach,  and  the  Wartburg ; 
changing  afterwards  to  Bamberg,  and  finally  to  Marpurg. 


PROEM 


(Epimetheus.) 


Wake  again,  Teutonic  Father-ages, 
Speak  again,  beloved  primaeval  creeds ; 

Flash  ancestral  spirit  from  your  pages, 
Wake  the  greedy  age  to  noble  deeds. 


Tell  us,  how  of  old  our  saintly  mothers 

Schooled  themselves  by  vigil,  fast,  and  prayer  ; 

Learnt  to  love  as  Jesus  loved  before  them, 

While  they  bore  the  cross  which  poor  men  bear. 


Tell  us  how  our  stout  crusading  fathers 

Fought  and  died  for  God,  and  not  for  gold  ; 

Let  their  love,  their  faith,  their  boyish  daring. 
Distance-mellowed,  gild  the  days  of  old. 


28  PROEM. 

IV. 

Tell  us  how  the  sexless  workers,  thronging, 
Angel-tended,  round  the  convent  doors. 

Wrought  to  Christian  faith  and  holy  order 
Savage  hearts  alike  and  barren  moors. 

V. 

Ye  who  built  the  churches  where  we  worship. 
Ye  who  framed  the  laws  by  which  we  move. 

Fathers,  long  belied,  and  long  forsaken. 
Oh  !  forgive  the  children  of  your  love  ! 


(Pkometheus.) 
I. 

Speak  !  but  ask  us  not  to  be  as  ye  were ! 

All  but  God  is  changing  day  by  day. 
He  who  breathes  on  man  the  plastic  spirit, 

Bids  us  mould  ourselves  its  robe  of  clay. 

II. 
Old  anarchic  floods  of  revolution. 

Drowning  ill  and  good  alike  in  iiight. 
Sink,  and  bear  the  wrecks  of  ancient  labour, 

Fossil-teeming,  to  the  searching  light ! 


There  will  we  find  laws,  wliich  shall  interpret. 
Through  the  simpler  past,  existing  life  ; 

Delving  up  from  mines  and  fairy  caverns 
Charmed  blades,  to  cut  the  age's  strife. 


PROEM.  29 

IV. 

What  though  fogs  may  stream  from  draining  waters  ? 

"We  will  till  the  clays  to  mellow  loam  ; 
Wake  the  graveyard  of  our  fathers'  spirits ; 

Clothe  its  crumbling  mounds  with  blade  and  bloom. 

V. 

Old  decays  but  foster  new  creations  ; 

Bones  and  ashes  feed  the  golden  corn ; 
Fresh  elixirs  wander  every  moment, 

Down  the  veins  through  which  the  live  past  feeds 
its  child,  the  live  unborn. 


THE    SAINT'S    TRAGEDY 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.    a.d.  1220. 

The  Doorway  of  a  closed  Chapel  in  the  Wartburg.    Elizabeth 
sitting  on  the  Steps. 

Ellz,  Babj  Jesus,  who  dost  lie 
Far  above  that  stormy  sky, 
In  Thy  mother's  pure  caress. 
Stoop  and  save  the  motherless. 

Happy  birds  !  whom  Jesus  leaves 
Underneath  his  sheltering  eaves  ; 
There  they  go  to  play  and  sleep, 
May  not  I  go  in  to  weep  ? 


All  without  is  mean  and  small. 
All  within  is  vast  and  tall ; 
All  without  is  harsh  and  shrill, 
All  within  is  hushed  and  still. 


32  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  I. 

Jesus,  let  me  enter  in, 
Wrap  me  safe  from  noise  and  sin  ; 
Let  me  list  the  angels'  songs, 
See  the  picture  of  Thy  wrongs  ; 

Let  me  kiss  Thy  wounded  feet. 
Drink  Thine  incense,  faint  and  sweet. 
While  the  clear  bells  call  Thee  down 
From  Thine  everlasting  throne. 

At  Thy  door-step  low  I  bend, 
IVlio  have  neither  kin  nor  friend  ; 
Let  me  here  a  shelter  find, 
Shield  the  shorn  lamb  from  the  wind. 

Jesu,  Lord,  my  heart  will  break. 
Save  me  for  Thy  great  love's  sake  ! 

Enter  Isentrudis. 

Isen.  Aha  !  I  had  missed  my  little  bird  from  the  nest. 
And  judged  that  she  was  here.    What 's  this  ?  fie,  tears  ? 

Eliz.  Go  !  you  despise  me  like  the  rest. 

Isen.  Despise  you  ? 

Wh^  's  here  ?    King  Andrew's  child  ?    St.  John's  sworn 

maid  ? 
Who  dares  despise  you  ?     Out  upon  these  Saxons  ! 
They  sang  another  note  when  I  was  younger, 
When  from  the  rich  East  came  my  queenly  pearl, 
Lapt  on  this  fluttering  heart,  while  mighty  heroes 


SCENE  I.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  33 

Rode  by  her  side,  and  far  behind  us  stretched 
The  barbs  and  sumpter  mules,  a  royal  train, 
Laden  with  silks  and  furs,  and  priceless  gems, 
Wedges  of  gold,  and  furniture  of  silver, 
Fit  for  my  princess. 

Eliz.  Hush  now,  I've  heard  all,  nurse, 

A  thousand  times. 

Isen,  Oh,  how  their  hungry  mouths 

Did  water  at  the  booty  !     Such  a  prize, 
Since  the  three  Kings  came  wandering  into  Coin, 
They  ne'er  saw,  nor  their  fathers  ; — well  they  knew  it ! 
Oh,  how  they  fawned  on  us !     "  Great  Isentrudis  ! " 
"  Sweet  babe  I "     The  Landgravine  did  thank  her  saints 
As  if  you,  or  your  silks,  had  fallen  from  heaven ; 
And  now  she  wears  your  furs,  and  calls  us  gipsies. 
Come  tell  your  nurse  your  griefs ;  we  '11  weep  together, 
Strangers  in  this  strange  land ! 

Eliz.  I  am  most  friendless. 

The  Landgravine  and  Agnes — ^you  may  see  them 
Begrudge  the  food  I  eat,  and  call  me  friend 
Of  knaves  and  serving-maids ;  the  burly  knights 
Freeze  me  with  cold  blue  eyes  :  no  saucy  page 
But  points  and  whispers,  "  There  goes  our  pet  nun  ; 
Would  but  her  saintship  leave  her  gold  behind, 
We  'd  give  herself  her  furlough."     Save  me !  save  me  ! 
All  here  are  ghastly  dreams  ;  dead  masks  of  stone, 
And  you  and  I,  and  Guta,  only  live : 
Your  eyes  alone  have  souls.     I  shall  go  mad  ! 
Oh  !  that  they  would  but  leave  me  all  alone, 
3 


34  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  I.  . 

To  teach  poor  girls  and  work  within  my  chamber, 
With  mine  own  thoughts,  and  all  the  gentle  angels 
Which  glance  about  my  dreams  at  morning-tide  ; 
Then  I  should  be  as  happy  as  the  birds 
Which  sing  at  my  bower  window.     Once  I  longed 
To  be  beloved, — now  would  they  but  forget  me ! 
Most  vile  I  must  be,  or  they  could  not  hate  me ! 

Isen.  They   are   of    this   world,   thou   art   not,   poor 
child, 
Therefore  they  hate  thee,  as  they  did  thy  betters. 

JEliz.  But,  Lewis,  nurse  ? 

Isen.  He,  child  ?  he  is  thy  knight ; 

Espoused  from  childhood  :  thou  hast  a  claim  upon  him. 
One  that  thou  'It  need,  alas  ! — though,  I  remember — 
'Tis  fifteen  years  agone — when  in  one  cradle 
We  laid  two  fair  babes  for  a  marriage  token ; 
And  when  your  lips  met,  then  you  smiled,  and  twined 
Your  little  limbs  together. — Pray  the  Saints 
That  token  stand  ! — He  calls  thee  love  and  sister. 
And  brings  thee  gewgaws  from  the  wars  ;  that 's  much ! 
At  least  he 's  thine  if  thou  love  him. 

Eliz,  If  I  love  him? 

What  is  this  love  ?     Why,  is  he  not  my  brother 
And  I  his  sister  ?     Till  these  weary  wars. 
The  one  of  us  without  the  other  never 
Did  weep  or  laugh :  what  is 't  should  change  us  now  ? 
You  shake  your  head  and  smile. 

Isen.  Go  to ;  the  chafe 

Comes  not  by  wearing  chains  but  feeling  them. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  35 

Eliz.  Alcas !  here  comes  a  knight  across  the  court ; 
O,  hide  me,  nurse  !     What 's  here  ?  this  door  is  fast. 

Iscn.  Nay,  'tis  a  friend :  he  brought  my  princess  hither, 
WaUer  of  Varila  ;  I  feared  him  once — 
He  used  to  mock  our  state,  and  say,  good  wine 
Should  want  no  bush,  and  that  the  cage  was  gay, 
But  that  the  bird  must  sing  before  he  praised  it. 
Yet  he 's  a  kind  heart,  while  his  bitter  tongue 
Awes  these  court  popinjays  at  times  to  manners. 
He  will  smile  sadly  too,  when  he  meets  my  maiden  ; 
And  once  he  said,  he  was  your  liegeman  sworn. 
Since  my  lost  mistress  weeping,  to  his  charge 
Trusted  the  babe  slie»saw  no  more. — God  help  us  ! 

Eliz.  How  did  my  mother  die,  nurse  ? 

Isen.  She  died,  my  child. 

Eliz.  But  how  ?     Why  turn  away  ? 

Too  long  I've  guessed  at  some  dread  mystery 
I  may  not  hear :  and  in  my  restless  dreams, 
Night  after  night,  sweeps  by  a  frantic  rout 
Of  grinning  fiends,  fierce  horses,  bodiless  hands. 
Which  clutch  at  one  to  whom  my  spirit  yearns 
As  to  a  mother.     There  's  some  fearful  tie 
Between  me  and  that  spirit-world,  which  God 
Brands  with  His  terrors  on  my  troubled  mind. 
Speak  !  tell  me,  nurse !  is  she  in  heaven  or  hell  ? 

Isen.  God  knows,  my  child :  there  are  masses  for  her 
soul. 
Each  day  in  every  Zingar  minster  sung. 

Eliz.  But  was  she  holy  ? — Died  she  in  the  Lord  ? 


36  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  I. 

Isen.  (weeps.)  Ob,  God  !    my  child !     Aiid  if'  I  told 
thee  all, 
How  could'st  thou  mend  it  ? 

Eliz.  Mend  it  ?  '  Oh,  my  Saviour  ! 

I'd  die  a  saint ! 

Win  heaven  for  her  by  prayers,  and  build  great  minsters. 
Chantries,  and  hospitals  for  her  ;  wipe  out 
By  mighty  deeds  our  race's  guilt  and  shame — 
But  thus,  poor  witless  orphan  !     (  Weeps.) 

Count  Walter  enters. 
Wal.  Ah  !  my  princess  !  accept  your  liegeman's  knee ; 
Down,  down,  rheumatic  flesh" ! 

Eliz.  Ah  !  Count  Walter !  you  ai-e  too  tall  to  kneel  to 

little  girls. 
Wal.  What  ?  shall  two  hundred  weight  of  hypocrisy 
bow  down  to  his  four-inch  wooden  saint,  and  the  same 
weight  of  honesty  not  worship  his  four-foot  live  one  ? 
And  I  have  a  jest  for  you,  shall  make  my  small  queen 
merry  and  wise. 

Jsen.  You  shall  jest  long  before  she  's  merry. 
Wal.  Ah  !  dowers  and  dowagers  again  !     The  money 
— root  of  all  evil. 
What  comes  here  ?  [A  Page  enters. 

A  long-winged  grasshopper,  all  gold,  green,  and  gauze  ? 
How  these  young  pea-chicks  must  needs  ape  the  grown 
peacock's  frippery  !  Prithee,  now,  how  many  such  but- 
terflies as  you  suck  here  together  on  the  thistle-head  of 
royalty  ? 


SCENE  I.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  37 

Page.  Some  twelve  gentlemen  of  us,  Sir — apostles  of 
the  blind  archer,  Love — owning  no  divinity  but  almighty- 
beauty — no  faith,  no  hope,  no  charity,  but  those  which 
are  kindled  at  her  eyes. 

Wal  Saints  !  what 's  all  this  ? 

Page.  Ah,  Sir !  none  but  countrymen  swear  by  the 
saints  nowadays :  no  oaths  but  allegorical  ones,  Sir,  at 
the  high  table  ;  as  thus, — "  By  the  sleeve  of  beauty, 
Madam ; "  or  again,  "  By  Love  his  martyrdoms,  Sir 
Count,"  or  to  a  potentate,  "  As  Jove's  imperial  mercy 
shall  hear  my  vows,  High  Mightiness." 

WaJ.  Where  did  the  evil  one  set  you  on  finding  all 
this  heathenry  ? 

Page.  Oh !  we  are  all  barristers  of  Love's  court.  Sir, 
— we  have  Ovid's  gay  science  conned.  Sir,  ad  unguen- 
turn,  as  they  say,  out  of  the  French  book. 

Wal.  So  ?  There  are  those  come  from  Rome  then 
will  whip  you  and  Ovid  out  with  the  same  rod  wliich  the 
dandies  of  Provence  felt  lately  to  their  sorrow.  Oh! 
what  blinkards  are  we  gentlemen,  to  train  any  dumb 
beasts  more  carefully  than  we  do  Christians; — that  a 
man  shall  keep  his  dog-breakers,  and  his  horse-breakers, 
and  his  hawk-breakers,  and  never  hire  him  a  boy-breaker 
or  two  !  that  we  should  live  without  a  qualm  at  dangling 
such  a  flock  of  mimicking  pari'oquets  at  our  heels  awhile, 
and  then  when  they  are  well  infected,  well  perfumed 
with  the  wind  of  our  vices,  dropping  them  ofi*,  as  tad- 
poles do  their  tails,  joint  by  joint,  into  the  mud  !  to  strain 
at  such  gnats  as  an  ill-mouthed  colt  or  a  riotous  puppy, 
and  swallow  that  camel  of  camels,  a  page  ! 


38  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  I. 

Page,  Do  you  call  me  a  camel,  Sir  ? 

Wal.  Wliat  's  your  business  ? 

Page,  My  errand  is  to  the  princess  here. 

Eliz.  Tome? 

Page.  Yes ;  the  Landgravine  expects  you  at  high 
mass  ;  so  go  in,  and  mind  you  clean  yourself ;  for  every 
one  is  not  as  fond  as  you  of  beggars'  brats,  and  what 
their  clothes  leave  behind  them. 

Isen.  (^Strikes  him.)    Monkey !     To   whom   are   you 
speaking  ? 

Eliz.  Oh,  peace,  peace,  peace  !     I'll  go  widi  him. 

Page.  Then  be  quick,  my  music-master's  waiting. 
Corpo  di  Bacco !  as  if  our  elders  did  not  teach  us  to 
whom  we  ought  to  be  rude  !  [Ex.  Eliz.  and  Page. 

Isen.  See  here,  Sir  Saxon,  how  this  pearl  of  price 
Is  faring  in  your  hands  !     The  peerless  image. 
To  whom  this  court  is  but  the  tawdry  frame, — 
The  speck  of  light  amid  its  murky  baseness, — 
The  salt  which  keeps  it  all  from  rotting, — cast 
To  be  the  common  fool, — the  laughing-stock 
For  every  beardless  knave  to  whet  his  wit  on  ! 
Tar-blooded  Germans ! — Here 's  another  of  them. 

[A  young  Knight  enters. 

Knight.    Heigh  !    Count !     What  ?   learning  to   sing 
psalms  ?     They  are  waiting 
For  you  in  the  manage-school,  to  give  your  judgment 
On  that  new  Norman  mare. 

Wal.  Tell  them  I'm  busy. 

Knight.  Busy  ?  St.  Martin  !  Knitting  stockings,  eh  ? 
To  clothe  the  poor  withal  ?     Is  that  your  business  ? 


SCENE  I.J  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  39 

I  jDassed  that  canting  baby  on  the  stairs  ; 
Would  Heaven  tluit  she  had  tripped  and  broke  her  goose- 
neck, 
And  left  us  heirs  de  facto.     So,  farewell.  [Exit. 

Wal.  A  very  pretty  quarrel !  matter  enough 
To  spoil  a  wagon-load  of  ash-staves  on, 
And  break  a  dozen  fools'  backs  across  their  cantlets. 
What 's  Lewis  doing  ? 

Isen,  Oh — Befooled, — 

Bewitched  with  dogs  and  horses,  like  an  idiot 
Clutching  his  bauble,  while  a  priceless  jewel 
Sticks  at  his  miry  heels. 

Wal  The  boy 's  no  fool,— 

As  good  a  heart  as  her's,  but  somewhat  given 
To  hunt  the  nearest  buttei-fly,  and  Hght 
The  fire  of  fancy  without  hanging  o'er  it 
The  porridge-pot  of  practice.     He  shall  hear  on 't. 

Ise?i.  And  quickly,  for  there  's  treason  in  the  wind. 
They  '11  keep  her  dower,  and  send  her  home  with  shame 
Before  the  year 's  out. 

Wal.  Humph !  Some  are  rogues  enough  for 't.  As  it 
falls  out,  I  ride  with  him  to-day. 

Isen.  Upon  what  business  ? 

Wal.  Some  shaveling  has  been  telling  him  that  there 
are  heretics  on  his  land ;  stadings,  worshippers  of  black 
cats,  baby-eaters,  and  such  like.  He  consulted  me;  I 
told  him  it  would  be  time  enough  to  see  to  the  heretics, 
when  all  the  good  Christians  had  been  well  looked  after. 
I  suppose  the  novelty  of  the  thing  smit  him,  for  now 


40  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  I. 

nothing  will  serve  but  I  must  ride  with  him  round  half  a 
dozen  hamlets,  where,  with  God's  help,  I  will  show  him 
a  manstje  or  two,  that  shall  astonish  his  delicate  chivalry. 

Isen.  O,   here 's   your  time  !     Speak   to   liim,   noble 
Walter. 
Stun  his  dull  ears  with  praises  of  her  grace  ; 
Prick  his  dull  heart  with  shame  at  his  own  coldness. 
O,  right  us.  Count. 

Wal.  I  will,  I  will :  go  in 

And  dry  your  eyes.  [Exeunt  separately. 

Scene  II. 

A  Landscape  in  Thuringia.    Lewis  and  Walter  ridinr/. 

Lew.    So   all   these   lands   are   mine  ;    these   yellow 
meads-^. 
These  village-greens,  and  forest-fretted  hiUs, 
With  dizzy  castles  crowned.     Mine  ?     Why  that  word 
Is  rich  in  promise,  in  the  action  bankrupt. 
What  faculty  of  mine,  save  dream-fed  pride 
Can  these  things  fatten  ?     Mass  !     I  had  forgot : 
I  have  a  right  to  bark  at  trespassers. 
Rare  privilege  !     While  every  fowl  and  bush, 
According  to  its  destiny  and  nature, 
(Which  were  they  truly  mine,  my  power  could  alter) 
Will  live,  and  grow,  and  take  no  thought  of  me. 
Those  firs,  before  whose  stealthy-marching  ranks 
The  world-old  oaks  still  dwindle  and  retreat. 
If  I  could  stay  their  poisoned  frown,  which  cows 
The  pale,  slirunk  underwood,  and  nestled  seeds 


SCENE  II.]  THE    saint's    tragedy.  41 

Into  an  age  of  sleep,  'twere  something ;  and  those  men 
O'er  whom  that  one  word  "  ownership  "  uprears  me — 
If  I  could  make  them  lift  a  finger  up 
But  of  their  own  free  will,  I'd  own  my  seisin. 
But  now — when  if  I  sold  them,  life  and  limb, 
There 's  not  a  sow  would  litter  one  pig  less 
Than  when  men  called  her  mine. — Possession 's  naught ; 
A  parchment  ghost ;  a  word  I  am  ashamed 
To  claim  even  here,  lest  all  the  forest  spmts. 
And  bees  who  drain  unasked  the  free-bom  flowers. 
Should  mock,  and  cry,  "  Vain  man,  not  thine,  but  ours." 
Wal.  Possession's  naught?      Possession's   beef  and 
ale — 
Soft  bed,   fair  wife,  gay  horse,  good  steel. — Are  they 

naught  ? 
Possession  means  to  sit  astride  of  the  world, 
Instead  of  having  it  astride  of  you  ; 
Is  that  naught  ?     'Tis  the  easiest  trade  of  all  too  ; 
For  he  that 's  fit  for  nothing  else,  is  fit 
To  own  good  land,  and  on  the  slowest  dolt 
His  state  sits  easiest,  while  his  serfs  thrive  best. 

Lew.  How  now  ?     What  need  then  of  long  discipline 
Not  to  mere  feats  of  arms,  but  feats  of  soul ; 
To  courtesies  and  high  self-sacrifice. 
To  order  and  obedience,  and  the  grace 
Which  makes  commands,  requests,  and  service,  favour  ? 
To  faith  and  prayer,  and  pure  thoughts,  ever  turned 
To  that  Valhalla,  where  the  virgin  saints 
And  stainless  heroes  tend  the  Queen  of  heaven  ? 


42  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  I. 

Why  these,  if  I  but  need,  hke  stalled  ox, 
To  chew  the  grass  cut  for  me  ? 

Wal.  Why?     Because 

I  have  tramed  thee  for  a  knight,  boy,  not  a  ruler. 
All  callings  want  their  proper  'prentice  time 
But  this  of  ruling ;  it  comes  by  mother-wit ; 
And  if  the  wit  be  not  exceeding  great, 
'Tis  best  the  wit  be  most  exceeding  small ; 
And  he  that  holds  the  reins,  should  let  the  horse 
Range  on,  feed  where  he  will,  live  and  let  live. 
Custom  and  selfishness  will  keep  all  steady 
For  half  a  life. — Six  months  before  you  die 
You  may  begin  to  think  of  interfering. 

Lew.  Alas !  while  each  day  blackens  with  fresh  clouds, 
Complaints  of  ague,  fever,  crumbling  huts. 
Of  land  thrown  out  to  the  forest,  game  and  keepers, 
Baihffs  and  barons,  plundering  all  alike ; 
Need,  greed,  stupidity  :     To  clear  stich  ruin 
Would  task  the  rich  prime  of  some  noble  hero — 
But  can  I  nothing  do  ? 

Wal  .  Oh!  plenty,  Sir; 

Which  no  man  yet  has  done  or  e'er  will  do. 
It  rests  with  you,  whether  the  priest  be  honoured  ; 
It  rests  with  you,  whether  the  knight  be  knightly  ; 
It  rests  with  you,  whether  those  fields  grow  corn  ; 
It  rests  with  you,  wTiether  those  toiling  peasants 
Lift  to  their  masters  free  and  loyal  eyes, 
Or  crawl,  like  jaded  hacks,  to  welcome  graves. 
It  rests  with  you — and  will  rest. 


SCENE  11.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  43 

Lew.  I'll  crowd  my  court  and  dais  with  men  of  God, 
As  doth  my  peerless  namesake,  King  of  France. 

Wal.  Priests,  Sir  ?     The  Frenchman  keeps  two  comi- 
sellors 
Worth  any  drove  of  priests. 

Lew.  And  who  are  they  ? 

Wal.  God  and  his  lady-love.     {Aside.)  He  '11  open  at 
that— 

Lew,  I  could  be  that  man's  squire. 

Wal.  (Aside.)  Again  run  riot — 

Now  for  another  cast ;  (Aloud.)  If  you  'd  sleep  sound, 

Sir, 
You  '11  let  priests  pray  for  you,  but  school  you  never. 

Lew.  Mass  !  who  more  fitted  ? 

Wed.  None,  if  you  could  trust  them ; 

But  they  are  the  people's  creatures ;  poor  men  give  them 
Their  power  at  the  Church,  and  take  it  back  at  the  ale- 
house : 
Then  what 's  the  friar  to  the  starving  peasant  ? 
Just  what  the  abbot  is  to  the  greedy  noble — 
A  scarecrow  to  lear  wolves.     Go  ask  the  churchplate, 
Safe  in  knight's  cellars,  how  these  priests  are  feared. 
Bruised  reeds  when  you  most  need  them. — No,  my  Lord ; 
Copy  them,  trust  them  never. 

Lew.  Copy?  wherein? 

Wal.  In  letting  every  man 

Do  what  he  likes,  and  only  seeing  he  does  it 
As  you  do  your  work — well.     That 's  the  Church  secret 
For  breeding  towns,  as  fast  as  you  breed  roe-deer ; 


44  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  1. 

Example,  but  no  meddling.     See  that  hollow — 

I  knew  it  once  all  heath,  and  deep  peat-bog — 

I  drowned  a  black  mare  in  that  self-same  spot 

Hunting  with  your  good  father :  Well,  he  gave  it, 

One  jovial  night,  to  six  poor  Erfurt  monks — 

Six  picked-visaged,  wan,  bird-fingered  wights — 

All  in  their  rough  hair  shirts,  like  hedgehogs  starved — 

I  told  them,  six  weeks'  work  would  break  their  hearts : 

They  answered,  Christ  would  help,  and  Christ's  great 

mother, 
And  make  them  strong  when  weakest :    So  they  settled  : 
And  starved  and  froze. 

Lew.  And  dug  and  built,  it  seems. 

Wal.  Faith,  that 's  true.     See — as  garden  walls  draw 

snails. 
They  have  drawn  a  hamlet  round  ;  the  slopes  are  blue 
Knee-deep  with  flax,  the  orchard  boughs  are  breaking 
With  strange  outlandish  fruits.    See  those  young  rogues 
Marching  to  school ;  no  poachers  here.  Lord  Landgrave, — 
Too  much  to  be  done  at  home  ;  there  's  not  a  villaofe 
Of  yours,  now,  thrives  like  this  :  By  God's  good  help 
These  men  have  made  their  ownership  worth  something. 
Here  comes  one  of  them. 

Lew,  I  would  speak  to  him — 

And  learn  his  secret — We  '11  await  him  here. 

Enter  Conrad. 

Con.  Peace  to  you,  reverend  and  war-worn  knight, 
And  you,  fair  youth,  upon  whose  swarthy  lip 


SCENE  II.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  45 

Blooms  the  rich  promise  of  a  noble  manhood. 
Methinks,  if  simple  monks  may  read  your  thoughts, 
That  with  no  envious  or  distasteful  eyes 
Ye  watch  the  labours  of  God's  poor  elect. 

Wal.  Why — we  were  saying,  how  you  cunning  rooks 
Pitch  as  by  instinct  on  the  fattest  fallows. 

Con.  For  He  who  feeds  the  ravens,  promiseth 
Our  bread  and  water  sure,  and  leads  us  on 
By  peaceful  streams  in  pastures  green  to  lie, 
Beneath  our  Shepherd's  eye. 

Lew.  in  such  a  nook,  now, 

To  nestle  from  this  noisy  world — 

Con.  — And  drop 

The  burden  of  thyself  upon  the  threshold. 

Lew.  Think  what  rich  dreams  may  haunt  those  lowly 
roofs ! 

Con.  Rich  dreams, — and  more  ;  their  dreams  will  find 
fulfilment — 
Their  discipline  breeds  strength — 'Tis  we  alone 
Can  join  the  patience  of  the  laboring  ox 
Unto  the  eagle's  foresight, — not  a  fancy 
Of  ours,  but  grows  in  time  to  mighty  deeds ; 
Victories  in  heavenly  warfare  :  but  yours,  yours.  Sir, 
Oh  choke  them,  choke  the  panting  hopes  of  youth, 
Ere  they  be  born,  and  wither  in  slow  pains, 
Cast  by  for  the  next  bauble  ! 

Lew.  'Tis  too  true  ! 

I  dread  no  toil :  toil  is  the  true  knight's  pastime — 
Faith  fails,  the  will  intense  and  fixed,  so  easy 


46  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  I. 

To  thee,  cut  off  from  life  and  love,  whose  powers 
In  one  close  channel  must  condense  their  stream  : 
But  I,  to  whom  this  life  blooms  rich  and  busy, 
Whose  heart  goes  out  a-Maying  all  the  year 
In  this  new  Eden — in  my  fitful  thought 
What  skill  is  there,  to  turn  my  faith  to  sight — 
To  pierce  blank  Heaven,  like  some  trained  falconer 
After  his  game,  beyond  all  human  ken  ? 

Wal.  And  walk  into  the  bog  beneath  your  feet. 

Con.  And  change  it  to  firm  land  by  magic  step ! 
Build  there  cloud-cleaving  spires,  beneath  whose  shade 
Great  cities  rise  for  vassals  ;  to  call  forth 
From  plough  and  loom  the  rank  unlettered  hinds. 
And  make  them  saints  and  heroes — send  them  forth 
To  sway  with  heavenly  craft  the  spirit  of  princes  ; 
Change  nations'  destinies,  and  conquer  worlds 
With  love,  more  mighty  than  the  sword  ;  what,  Count  ? 
Art  thou  ambitious  ?  practical  ?  we  monks 
Can  teach  you  somewhat  there  too. 

Lew.  Be  it  so ; 

But  love  you  have  foresworn  ;  and  what  were  life 
Without  that  chivalry,  which  bends  man's  knees 
Before  God's  image  and  his  glory,  best 
Revealed  in  woman's  beauty  ? 

Con.  Ah  !  poor  worldlings  ! 

Little  you  dream  what  maddening  ecstasies, 
What  rich  ideals  haunt,  by  day  and  night, 
Alone,  and  in  the  crowd,  even  to  the  death, 
The  servitors  of  that  celestial  court 


SCENE  iT.j  THE  saint's  tragedy.  47 

Where  peerless  Mary,  sun-enthroned,  reigns, 
In  whom  all  Eden  dreams  of  womanhood, 
All  grace  of  form,  hue,  sound,  all  beauty  strewn 
Like  pearls  unstrung,  about  this  ruined  world, 
Have  their  fulfilment  and  their  archetype. 
Wliy  hath  the  rose  its  scent,  the  lily  grace  ? 
To  mirror  forth  her  loveliness,  from  whom. 
Primeval  fount  of  grace,  their  livery  came  : 
Pattern  of  Seraphs  !  only  worthy  ark 
To  bear  her  God  athwart  the  floods  of  time  ! 

Lew.  Who  dare  aspire  to  her  ?     Alas,  not  I ! 
To  me  she  is  a  doctrine,  and  a  picture : — 
I  cannot  live  on  dreams. 

Con.  She  hath  her  train  :— 

There   thou   may'st   choose   thy   love  ;    If  world-wide 

lore 
Shall  please  thee,  and  the  Cherub's  glance  of  fire. 
Let  Catharine  lift  thy  soul,  and  rapt  with  her 
Question  the  mighty  dead,  until  thou  float 
Tranced  on  the  ethereal  ocean  of  her  spirit. 
If  pity  father  passion  in  thee,  hang 
Above  Eulaha's  tortured  loveliness  ; 
And  for  her  sake,  and  m  her  strength,  go  forth 
To  do  and  suflTer  greatly.     Dost  thou  long 
For  some  rich  heart,  as  deep  in  love  as  weakness. 
Whose  wild  simphcity  sweet  heaven-born  instincts 
Alone  keep  sane  ? 

Lew.  I  do,  I  do.     I'd  live 

And  die  for  each  and  all  the  three. 


48  THE    SAINT  S    TRAGEDY.  [ACT  I. 

Con.  Then  go — 

Entangled  in  the  Magdalen's  tresses  lie ; 
Dream  hours  before  her  picture,  till  thy  lips 
Dare  to  approach  her  feet,  and  thou  shalt  start 
To  find  the  canvas  warm  with  life,  and  matter 
A  moment  transubstantiate  to  heaven. 

Wal.  Ay,  catch  his  fever,  Sir,  and  learn  to  take 
An  indigestion  for  a  troop  of  angels. 
Come  tell  him,  monk,  about  your  magic  gardens. 
Where  not  a  stringy  head  of  kale  is  cut 
But  breeds  a  vision  or  a  revelation. 

Lew.  Hush,  hush,  Count !  Speak,  strange  monk,  strange 
words,  and  waken 
Longings  more  strange  than  either. 

Con.  Then,  if  proved, 

As  I  dare  vouch  thee,  loyal  in  thy  love. 
Even  to  the  Queen  herself  thy  saintlier  soul 
At  length  may  soar :  perchance — Oh,  bUss  too  great 
For'  thought — yet  possible  ! 
Receive  some  token — smile — or  hallowing  touch 
Of  that  white  hand,  beneath  whose  soft  caress 
The  raging  world  is  smoothed,  and  runs  its  course 
To  shadow  forth  her  glory. 

Lew.  Thou  dost  tempt  me — 

That  were  a  knightly  quest. 

Con.  Ay,  here 's  true  love. 

Love's  heaven,  without  its  hell ;  the  golden  fruit 
Without  the  foul  husk,  which  at  Adam's  fall 
Did  crust  it  o'er  with  filth  and  selfishness. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  49 

I  tempt  thee  heavenward — from  yon  azure  walls 
Unearthly  beauties  beckon— God's  own  mother 
"Waits  longing  for  thy  choice — 

Lew.  Is  this  a  di'eam  ? 

Wal.  Ay,  by  the  Living  Lord,  who  died  for  you  ! 
Will  you  be  cozened,  Sir,  by  these  air-blown  fancies, 
These  male  hysterics,  by  starvation  bred 
And  huge  conceit  ?     Cast  off  God's  gift  of  manhood, 
And  like  the  dog  in  the  adage,  drop  the  true  bone 
With  snapping  at  the  sham  one  in  the  water  ? 
What  were  you  born  a  man  for  ? 

Lew,  Ay,  I  know  it : — 

I  cannot  live  on  dreams.     Oh,  for  one  friend. 
Myself,  yet  not  myself ;  one  not  so  high 
But  she  could  love  me,  not  too  pure  to  pardon 
My  sloth  and  meanness  !     Oh  !  for  flesh  and  blood. 
Before  whose  feet  I  could  adore,  yet  love  ! 
How  easy  then  were  duty  !     From  her  lips 
To  learn  my  daily  task ; — in  her  pure  eyes 
To  see  the  living  type  of  those  heaven-glories 
I  dare  not  look  on  ; — let  her  work  her  will 
Of  love  and  wisdom  on  these  straining  hinds  ; — 
To  squire  a  saint  around  her  labour  field. 
And  she  and  it  both  mine  : — That  were  possession  ! 

Con.  The  flesh,  fair  youth — 

Wal.  Avaunt,  bald  snake,  avaunt ! 

We   are  past  your   burrow  now.     Come,  come.   Lord 

Landgrave, 
Look  round,  and  find  your  saint. 
4 


50  THE  saixt's  tragedy.  [act  I. 

Lew.  Alas  !  one  such — 

One  such,  I  know,  who  upward  from  one  cradle 
Beside  me  hke  a  sister — No,  thank  God  !  no  sister  ! — 
Has  grown  and  grown,  and  with  her  mellow  shade 
Has  blanched  my  thornless  thoughts  to  her  own  hue, 
And  even  now  is  budding  into  blossom. 
Which  never  shall  bear  fruit,  but  inward  still 
Resorb  its  vital  nectar,  self-contained. 
And  leave  no  living  copies  of  its  beauty 
To  after  ages.     Ah  !  be  less,  sweet  maid, 
Less  than  thyself!     Yet  no — my  wife  thou  might' st  be, 
If  less  than  thus — ^but  not  the  saint  thou  art. 
"What !  shall  my  selfish  longings  drag  thee  down 
From  maid  to  wife  ?  degrade  the  soul  I  worship  ? 
That  were  a  caitiff  deed !     Oh,  misery ! 
Is  wedlock  treason  to  that  purity. 
Which  is  the  jewel  and  the  soul  of  wedlock  ? 
Elizabeth !  my  saint !  [^^««  Conrad. 

Wat  What,  Sir  ?  the  Princess  ? 

Ye  saints  in  heaven,  I  thank'  you  ! 

Lew,  Oh,  who  else, 

Who  else  the  minutest  lineament  fulfils 
Of  this  my  cherished  portrait  ? 

Wal.  So— 'tis  well. 

Hear  me,  my  Lord. — You  think  this  dainty  princess 
Too  perfect  for  you,  eh  ?     That 's  well  again : 
For  that  whose  price  after  fruition  falls  . 
May  well  too  high  be  rated  ere  enjoyed — 
In  plain  words, — if  she  looks  an  angel  now,  you  will  be 


SCENE  II.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  51 

better  mated  than  you  expected,  when  you  find  her — a 
woman.  For  flesh  and  blood  she  is,  and  that  young 
blood, — whom  her  cliildish  misusage  and  your  brotherly- 
love  ;  her  loneliness  and  your  protection ;  her  springing 
fancy  and  (for  I  may  speak  to  you  as  a  son)  your  beauty 
and  knightly  grace  have  so  bewitched,  and,  as  some  say, 
degraded,  that  briefly,  she  loves  you,  and  briefly,  better, 
her  few  friends  fear,  than  you  love  her. 

Lew.  Loves  me!     My   Count,  that  word  is  quickly 
spoken ; 
And  yet,  if  it  be  true,  it  thrusts  me  forth 
Upon  a  shoreless  sea  of  untried  passion, 
From  whence  is  no  return. 

Wal.  By  Siegfried's  sword, 

My  words  are  true,  and  I  came  here  to  say  them. 
To  thee,  my  son  in  all  but  blood. 
Mass,  I'm  no  gossip.     Why  ?     What  ails  the  boy  ? 

Lew.  Loves  me  !     Henceforth,  let   no  man,  peering 
down 
Through  the  dim  glittering  mine  of  future  years, 
Say  to  himself  "  Too  much !  this  cannot  be  ! " 
To-day,  and  custom,  wall  up  our  horizon : 
Before  the  hourly  miracle  of  life 
Blindfold  we  stand,  and  sigh,  as  though  God  were  not. 
I  have  wandered  in  the  mountains,  mist-bewildered, 
And  now  a  breeze  comes,  and  the  veil  is  lifted. 
And  priceless  flowers,  o'er  which  I  trod  unheeding, 
Gleam  ready  for  my  grasp.     She  loves  me  then  ! 
She,  who  to  me  was  as  a  nightingale 


52  THE   saint's   tragedy.  Fact  i. 

That  sings  in  magic  gardens,  rock-beleaguered, 
To  passing  angels  melancholy  music — 
"Whose  dark  eyes  hung,  like  far-off  evening  stars, 
Those  rosy-cushioned  windows  coldly  shining 
Down  from  the  cloud  world  of  her  unknown  fancy — 
She,  for  whom  holiest  touch  of  holiest  knight 
Seemed  all  too  gross — who  might  have  been  a  saint 
And  companied  with  angels — thus  to  pluck 
The  spotless  rose  of  her  own  maidenhood 
To  give  it  unto  me ! 

Wal.  You  love  her  then  ? 

Zew.  Look  !     If  yon  solid  mountain  were  all  gold, 
And  each  particular  tree  a  band  of  jewels, 
And  from  its  womb  the  Niebelungen  hoard 
With  elfin  wardens  called  me,  "  Leave  thy  love 
And  be  our  Master  " — I  would  turn  away — 
And  know  no  wealth  but  her. 

Wal.  Shall  I  say  this  to  her  ? 

I  am  no  carrier  pigeon,  Sir,  by  breed, 
But  now,  between  her  friends  and  persecutors 
My  life 's  a  burden. 

Lew.  Persecutors  ?     Who  ? 

Alas !  I  guess  it — I  had  known  my  mother 
Too  light  for  that  fair  saint, — but  who  else  dare  wink 
When  she  is  by  ?     My  knights  ? 

Wal  To  a  man,  my  Lord. 

Lew.  Here 's  chivalry  !     Well,  that 's  soon  brought  to 
bar. 
The  quarrel 's  mine ;  my  lance  shall  clear  that  stain. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  53 

Wal.  Quarrel  with   your  knights  ?     Cut   your   own 
chair-legs  off! 
They  do  but  sail  with  the  stream.     Her  passion,  Sir, 
Broke  shell  and  ran  out  twittering  before  yours  did. 
And  unrequited  love  is  mortal  sin 
With  this  chaste  world.     My  boy,  my  boy,  I  tell  you, 
The  fault  lies  nearer  home. 

Lew.  I  have  played  the  coward — 

And  in  the  sloth  of  false  humihty. 
Cast  by  the  pearl  I  dared  not  to  deserve. 
Plow  laggard  I  must  seem  to  her,  though  she  love  me  ; 
Playing  with  hawks  and  hounds,  while  she  sits  weeping ! 
'Tis  not  too  late. 

Wal.  Too  late,  my  royal  eyas  ? 

You  shall  strike  this  deer  yourself  at  gaze  ere  long— ^ 
She  has  no  mind  to  sHp  to  cover. 

Lew.  Come — 

We  '11  back — we  '11  back ;  and  you  shall  bear  the  message ; 
I  am  ashamed  to  speak.     Tell  her  I  love  her — 
That  I  should  need  to  tell  her  !     Say,  my  coyness 
Was  bred  of  worship,  not  of  coldness. 

Wal  Then  the  serfs 

Must  wait  ? 

Lew.  Why   not?     This   day   to   them,   too,    blessing 
brmgs. 
Which  clears  from  envious  webs  their  guardian  angel's 
wings.  [Exeunt. 


54  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  I. 

Scene  III. 

A  Chamher  in  the  Castle.    Sophia,  Elizabeth,  Agnes, 

Isentrude,  ^c,  re-entering. 

Soph.  What !  you  will  not  ?     You  hear,  dame  Isen- 
trude, 
She  will  not  wear  her  coronet  in  the  church. 
Because,  forsooth,  the  crucifix  witliin 
Is  crowned  with  thorns.     You  hear  her. 

Eliz.  Noble  mother. 

How  could  I  flaunt  this  bauble  in  His  face 
"Who  hung  there,  naked,  bleeding,  all  for  me — 
I  felt  it  shamelessness  to  go  so  gay. 

Soph.  Felt  ?     What  then  ?     Every  foolish  wench  has 
feelings 
In  these  religious  days,  and  thinks  it  carnal 
To  wash  her  dishes,  and  obey  her  parents — 
No  wonder  they  ape  you,  if  you  ape  them — 
Go  to  !     I  hate  this  humble-minded  pride, 
Self-willed  submission — to  your  own  pert  fancies  ; 
This  fog-bed  mushroom-spawn  of  brain-sick  wits, 
Who  make  their  oddities  their  test  for  grace. 
And  peer  about  to  catch  the  general  eye  ; 
Ah !  I  have  watched  you  throw  your  playmates  down 
To  have  the  pleasure  of  kneeUng  for  their  pardon. 
Here 's  sanctity — to  shame  your  cousin  and  me — 
Spurn  rank  and  proper  pride,  and  decency  ; — 
If  God  has  made  you  noble,  use  your  rank, 
If  you  but  know  how.     You  Landgravine  ?     You  mated 


SCENE  III.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  55 

AVith  gentle  Lewis  ?     Why,  belike  you  '11  cowl  him, 
As  that  stern  prude,  your  aunt,  cowled  her  poor  spouse ; 
No — one  Hedwiga  at  a  time 's  enough, — 
My  son  shall  die  no  monk. 

Isen.  Beseech  you,  Madam,— 

Weep  not,  my  darling. 

Soph.  Tut^I'll  speak  my  mind. 

We  '11  have  no  saints.     Thank  heaven,  my  saintliness 
Ne'er  troubled  my  good  man,  by  day  or  night. 
We  '11  have  no  saints,  I  say  ;  far  better  for  you, 
And  no  doubt  pleasanter — You  know  your  place — 
At  least  you  know  your  place, — to  take  to  cloisters, 
And  there  sit  carding  wool,  and  mumbling  Latin, 
With  sour  old  maids,  and  maundering  Magdalens, 
Proud  of  your  frost-kibed  feet,  and  dirty  serge. 
There  's  nothing  noble  in  you,  but  your  blood ; 
And  that  one  almost  doubts.     Who  art  thou,  child  ? 

Isen.  The  daughter,  please  your  highness, 
Of  Andreas,  king  of  Hungary,  your  better, 
And  your  son's  spouse. 

Soph.  I  had  forgotten,  truly — 

And  you.  Dame  Isentrudis,  are  her  servant. 
And  mine  :  come,  Agnes,  leave  the  gipsy  ladies 
To  say  their  prayers,  and  set  the  Saints  the  fashion. 

[Sop»iA  and  Agnes  go  out. 

Isen.  Proud  hussy !     Thou  shalt  set  thy  foot  on  her 
neck  yet,  darling, 
Wlien  thou  art  Landgravine. 

EUz.  And  when  wiU  that  be  ? 


56  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  I. 

No,  she  speaks  truth  !     I  should  have  been  a  nun. 

These  are  the  wages  of  my  cowardice, — 

Too  weak  to  face  the  world,  too  weak  to  leave  it ! 

Guta.  I'll  take  the  veil  with  you. 

EUz.  'Twere  but  a  moment's  work, — 

To  shp  into  the  convent  there  below, 
And  be  at  peace  forever.     And  you,  my  nurse  ? 

Isen.  I  will  go  with  thee,  child,  where'er  thou  goest. 
But  Lewis  ? 

EUz.         Ah  !  my  brother !     No,  I  dare  not — 
I  dare  not  turn  forever  from  this  hope, 
Though  it  be  dwindled  to  a  thread  of  mist. 
Oh  !  that  we  two  could  flee  and  leave  this  Babel ! 
Oh  !  if  he  were  but  some  poor  chapel-priest, 
In  lonely  mountain  valleys  far  away ; 
And  I  his  serving-maid,  to  work  his  vestments, 
And  dress  his  scrap  of  food,  and  see  liim  stand 
Before  the  altar  like  a  rainbowed  saint, 
To  take  the  blessed  wafer  from  his  hand. 
Confess  my  heart  to  him,  and  all  night  long 
Pray  for  him  while  he  slept,  or  through  the  lattice 
"Watch  while  he  read,  and  see  the  holy  thoughts 
Swell  in  his  big  deep  eyes. — Alas  !  that  di-eam 
Is  wilder  than  the  one  that 's  fading  even  now ! 
Who 's  here  ?  [^  ^^9^  e^^^rs. 

Page.  The  Count  of  Varila,  madam,  begs  permission 
to  speak  with  you. 

EUz.  With  me  ?    What 's  this  new  terror  ? 

Tell  him  I  wait  him. 


SCENE  m.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  57 

Isen.  (^Aside.)  Ah  !  my  old  heart  sinks — 

God  send  us  rescue  !     Here  the  champion  comes. 

Count  Walter  enters. 

Wal.  Most  learned,  fair,  and  sanctimonious  princess — 
Plague,  what  comes  next !     I  had  something  orthodox 

ready ; 
'Tis  dropped  out  by  the  way. — Mass  !  here 's  the  pith 

on't. — 
INIadam,  1  come  a  wooing ;  and  for  one 
Who  is  as  only  worthy  of  your  lov^, 
As  you  of  his  ;  he  bids  me  claim  the  spousala 
Made  long  ago  between  you, — and  yet  leaves 
Your  fancy  free,  to  grant,  or  pass  that  claim ; 
And  being  that  Mercury  is  not  my  planet, 
He  hath  advised  himself  to  set  herein. 
With  pen  and  ink,  what  seemed  good  to  him. 
As  passport  to  this  jewelled  mirror,  pledge 
Unworthy  of  his  worship.  yOives  a  letter  and  jewel. 

Isen.  Nunc  Domine  dimittis  servam  tuam  ! 
[Elizabeth  looks  over  the  letter  and  casket,  claps  lier  JiandSj 

and  bursts  into  childish  laughter.'] 
Why  here  's  my  Christmas  tree  come  after  Lent — 
Espousals  ?  pledges  ?  by  our  childish  love  ? 
Pretty  words  for  folks  to  think  of  at  the  wars, — 
And  pretty  presents  come  of  them  !    *  Look,  Guta  ! 
A  crystal  clear,  and  carven  on  the  reverse, 
The  blessed  rood.     He  told  me  once — one  night. 
When  we  did  sit  in  the  garden — What  was  I  saying  ? 


58  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  I. 

Wal.  My  fairest  princess,  as  ambassador, 

What  shall  I  answer  ? 

JEliz.  TeU  him— tell  him— God  ! 

Have  I  grown  mad,  or  a  child  within  the  moment  ? 
The  earth  has  lost  her  gray  sad  hue,  and  blazes 
With  her  old  life-light ;  hark  !  yon  wind 's  a  song — 
Those  clouds  are  angels'  robes. — That  fiery  west 
Is  paved  with  smiling  faces. — I  am  a  woman. 
And  all  things  bid  me  love !  my  dignity 
Is  thus  to  cast  my  virgin  pride  away. 
And  find  my  strength  in  weakness. — Busy  brain  ! 
Thou  keep'st  pace  with  my  heart ;  old  lore,  old  fancies, 
Buried  for  years,  leap  from  their  tombs,  and  proffer . 
Their  magic  service  to  my  new-born  spirit. 
I'll  go — I  am  not  mistress  of  myself — 
Send  for  him — bring  him  to  me — he  is  mine  !  [Exit. 

Isen.  Ah !   blessed   Saints !    how   changed   upon   the 
moment ! 
She  is  grown  taller,  trust  me,  and  her  eye 
Flames  like  a  fresh  caught  hind's.    She  that  was  christened 
A  brown  mouse  for  her  stillness  !     Good  my  Lord  ! 
Now  shall  mine  old  bones  see  the  grave  in  peace ! 

Scene  IV. 

The  Bridal  Feast.  Elizabeth,  Lewis,  Sophia,  and  Com- 
pany seated  at  the  Dais  table.  Court  Minstrel  and  Court 
Fool  sitting  on  the  Dais  step. 

Min.  How  gayly  smile  the  heavens, 
The  light  winds  whisper  gay  ; 


SCENE  IV.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  59 

For  royal  birth  and  knightly  worth 

Are  knit  to  one  to-day. 
Fool  [^Droivning  his  voice.~\ 

So  we  'U  flatter  them  up,  and  we  '11  cocker  them 
up, 

Till  we  turn  young  brains ; 

And  pamper  the  brach  till  we  make  her  a  wolf, 

And  get  bit  by  the  legs  for  our  pains. 
Monks  [  Chanting  without.'] 

A  fastu  et  superbia 

Domine  libera  nos. 
Min.  'Neath  sandal  red  and  samite, 

Are  knights  and  ladies  set ; 

The  henchmen  tall  stride  through  the  hall, 

The  board  with  wine  is  wet. 
Fool.  Oh  !  merrily  growls  the  starving  hind. 

At  my  full  skin  ; 

And  merrily  howl  wolf,  wind,  and  owl, 

Wliile  I  He  warm  within. 
Monks.  A  luxu  et  avaritid 

Domine  libera  nos. 
Min.  Hark  !  from  the  bridal  bower. 

Rings  out  the  bridesmaid's  song  ; 

"  'Tis  the  mystic  hour  of  an  untried  power, 

The  bride  she  tarries  long." 
Fool.  She  's  schooling  herself  and  she 's  steehng  herself. 

Against  the  dreary  day, 

"When  she  '11  pine  and  sigh  from  her  lattice  high, 

For  the  knight  that 's  far  away. 


60  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  I. 

Monks.  A  carnis  illectamentis 

Domine  libera  nos. 
Min.  Blest  maid  !  fresh  roses  o'er  thee 
The  careless  years  shall  fling ; 
>Yliile  days  and  nights  shall  new  delights 
To  sense  and  fancy  bring. 
^ool.  Satins  and  silks,  and  feathers  and  lace, 
WiU  gild  life's  pill ; 

In  jewels  and  gold  folks  cannot  grow  old, 
Fine  ladies  will  never  fall  ill. 
Monks.  A  vanitatibus  saeculi 

Domine  libera  nos. 
[Sophia  descends  from  the  Dais,  leading  Elizabeth. 

Ladies  follow.'] 
Soph,    [to   the    Fool']      Silence,    you    screech-owl. 
Come  strew  flowers,  fair  ladies. 
And  lead  unto  her  bower  our  fairest  bride. 
The  cynosure  of  love  and  beauty  here. 
Who  shrines  heaven's  graces  m  earth's  richest  casket. 
Miz.  I  come  :  [aside]  Here,  Guta,  take  those  monks 
a  fee — 
Tell  them  I  thank  them — bid  them  pray  for  me. 
I  am  half  mazed  with  trembling  joy  within. 
And  noisy  wassail  round — 'tis  well,  for  else 
The  spectre  of  my  duties  and  my  dangers 
Would  whelm  my  heart  with  terror.     Ah  !  poor  self! 
Thou  took'st  this  for  the  term  and  bourne  of  troubles — 
And  now  'tis  here,  thou  findest  it  the  gate 
Of  new  sin-cursed  infinities  of  labour. 


SCENE  IV.]                   THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  61 

Where  thou  must  do,  or  die  ! 

I  Aloud.']                  Lead  on.     I'll  follow.  [Exeunt. 

Fool.  There,  now.     No  fee  for  the  fool ;  and  yet  my 

prescription  was  as  good  as  those  old  Jeremies'.  But  in 
law,  physic,  and  divinity,  folks  had  sooner  be  poisoned  in 
Latin,  than  saved  in  the  mother-tongue. 


62  THE  saint's  tragedy. 


ACT  11. 

Scene  I.    a.d.  1221-7. 

Elizabeth's  Bower.     Night.     Lewis  sleeping  in  an  Alcove. 
Elizabeth  lying  on  the  Floor  in  the  Foreground. 

Eliz.     No  streak  yet  in  the  blank  and  eyeless  east — 

More  weary  hoiu's  to  ache,  and  smart,  and  shiver 

On  these  bare  boards,  within  a  step  of  bHss. 

Why  peevish  ?     'Tis  mine  own  will  keeps  me  here — 

And  yet  I  hate  myself  for  that  same  will : 

Fightings  within  and  out !     How  easy  'twere,  now. 

Just  to  be  like  the  rest,  and  let  life  run — 

To  use  up  to  the  rind  what  joys  God  sends  us, 

Not  thus  forestall  His  rod  :  What !  and  so  lose 

The  strength  which  comes  by  suffering  ?     Well,  if  grief 

Be  gain,  mine 's  double — fleeing  thus  the  snare 

Of  yon  luxurious  and  unnerving  down. 

And  widowed  from  mine  Eden.     And  why  widowed  ? 

Because  they  tell  me,  love  is  of  the  flesh. 

And  that 's  our  house-bred  foe,  the  adder  in  our  bosoms, 

Which   warmed   to   life,   will   sting   us.      They   must 

know 

I  do  confess  mine  ignorance,  Oh  Lord  ! 

Mine  earnest  will  these  painful  limbs  may  prove. 

****** 

And  yet  I  swore  to  love  him. — So  I  do 

No  more  than  I  have  sworn.     Am  I  to  blame 


SCENE  I.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  63 

J£  God  makes  wedlock  that,  which  if  it  be  not, 

It  were  a  shame  for  modest  lips  to  speak  it, 

And  silly  doves  are  better  mates  than  we  ? 

And  yet  our  love  is  Jesus'  due, — and  all  things 

Which  share  with  Him  divided  empery 

Are  snares   and  idols — "To  love,  to  cherish,  and  to 

obey ! " 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Oh  !  deadly  riddle  !     Rent  and  twofold  life  ! 
Oh !  cruel  troth !     To  keep  thee  or  to  break  thee 
Alike  seems  sin !     Oh !  thou  beloved  tempter, 

[Turning  toward  the  bed. 
Who  first  didst  teach  me  love,  why  on  thyself 
From  God  divert  thy  lesson  ?     Wilt  provoke  Him  ? 
What  if  mine  heavenly  Spouse  in  jealous  ire 
Should  smite  mine  earthly  spouse?     Have  I  two  hus- 
bands ? 
The  words  are  horror — yet  they  are  orthodox ! 

[Rises  and  goes  to  the  window. 

*  *  *  «  «  « 

How  many  many  brows  of  happy  lovers 
The  fragrant  lips  of  night  even  now  are  kissing! 
Some  wandering  hand  in  hand  through  arched  lanes ; 
Some  listening  for  loved  voices  at  the  lattice  ; 
Some  steeped  in  dainty  dreams  of  untried  bliss  ; 
Some  nestling  soft  and  deep  in  well-known  arms. 
Whose  touch  makes  sleep  rich  life.     The  very  birds 
Witliin  their  nests  are  wooing  !     So  much  love  ! 
All  seek  their  mates,  or  finding,  rest  in  peace  ; 


64  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

The  earth  seems  one  vast  bride-bed.    Doth  God  tempt  us  ? 

Is 't  all  a  veil  to  blind  our  eyes  from  Him  ? 

A  fire-fly  at  the  candle  !     'Tis  love  leads  him : 

Love  's  light,  and  light  is  love  :     Oh,  Eden  !  Eden ! 

Eve  was  a  virgin  there,  they  say ;  God  knows. 

Must  all  this  be  as  it  had  never  been  ? 

Is  it  all  a  fleeting  type  of  higher  love  ? 

Why,  if  the  lesson 's  pure,  is  not  the  teacher 

Pure  also  ?     Is  it  my  shame  to  feel  no  shame  ? 

Am  I  more  clean,  the  more  I  scent  uncleanness  ? 

Shall  base  emotions  piqture  Christ's  embrace  ? 

Kest,  rest,  torn  heart !     Yet  where  ?  in  earth  or  heaven  ? 

Still,  from  out  the  bright  abysses,  gleams  our  Lady's 

silver  footstool, 
Still  the  light-world  sleeps  beyond  her,  though  the  night- 
clouds  fleet  below. 
Oh !  that  I  were  walking,  far  above,  upon  that  dappled 

pavement. 
Heaven's  floor,  which  is  the  ceiling  of  the  dungeon  where 

we  lie. 
Ah,  what  blessed  Saints  might  meet  me,  on  that  platform, 

sliding  silent. 
Past  us  in  its  airy  travels,  angel-wafted,  mystical ! 
They  perhaps  might  tell  me  all  things,  opening  up  the 

secret  fountains 
Which  now   struggle,  dark   and   turbid,   through   their 

dreary  prison  clay. 
Love  !  art  thou  an  earth-born  streamlet,  that  thou  seek'st 

the  lowest  hollows  ? 


scKNK  1.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  65 

Sure  some  vapours  float  up  from  thee,  mingling  with  the 

highest  blue. 
Spirit-love  in  spirit-bodies,  melted  into  one  existence — 
Joining  praises  through  the  ages — Is  it  all  a  minstrel's 

dream  ? 
Alas  !  he  wakes.  [Lewis  rises. 

Lew.  Ah !  faithless  beauty, 

Is  this  your  promise,  that  whene'er  you  prayed 
I  should  be  still  the  partner  of  your  vigils, 
And  learn  from  you  to  pray?     Last  night  I  lay  dis- 
sembling 
"When  she  who  woke  you,  took  my  feet  for  yours : 
Now  I  shall  seize  my  lawful  prize  perforce. 
Alas  !  what 's  this  ?     These  shoulders'  cushioned  ice, 
And  thin  soft  flanks,  with  purple  lashes  all. 
And  weeping  furrows  traced  !     Ah  !  precious  life-blood  ! 
Who  has  done  this  ? 

Miz.  Forgive  !  'twas  I — my  maidens — 

Lew.  O,  ruthless  hags ! 

Eliz.  Not  so,  not  so — They  wept 

When  I  did  bid  them,  as  I  bid  thee  now 
To  think  of  nought  but  love. 

Lew.  Elizabeth ! 

Speak  !  I  will  know  the  meaning  of  this  madness ! 

Eliz.  Beloved,  thou  hast  heard  how  godly  souls. 
In  every  age,  have  tamed  the  rebel  flesh 
By  such  sharp  lessons.     I  must  tread  their  paths, 
If  I  would  climb  the  mountains  where  they  rest. 
Grief  is  the  gate  of  bliss — why  wedlock — knighthood — 
5 


66  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

A  mother's  joys — a  hard-earned  field  of  glory — 
By  tribulation  come — so  doth  God's  kingdom. 

Lew.  But  doleful  nights,  and  self-inflicted  tortures 

Are  these  the  love  of  God  ?     Is  He  well  pleased 
With  this  stern  holocaust  of  health  and  joy  ?     - 

Eliz.  What  ?  Am  I  not  as  gay  a  lady-love 
As  ever  dipt  in  arms  a  noble  knight  ? 
Am  I  not  blithe  as  bird  the  live-long  day  ? 
It  pleases  me  to  bear  what  you  call  pain, 
Therefore  to  me  'tis  pleasure  :  joy  and  grief 
Are  the  will's  creatures ;  martyrs  kiss  the  stake — 
The  moorland  colt  enjoys  the  thorny  furze — 
The  dullest  boor  will  seek  a  fight,  and  count 
His  pleasure  by  his  wounds  ;  you  must  forget,  love. 
Eve's  curse  lays  suffering,  as  their  natural  lot, 
On  womankind,  till  custom  makes  it  light. 
I  know  the  use  of  pain ;  bar  not  the  leech 
Because  his  cure  is  bitter — 'Tis  such  medicine 
Whi«h  breeds  that  paltry  strength,  that  weak  devotion, 
For  which  you  say  you  love  me. — Ay,  which  brings 
Even  when  most  sharp,  a  stern  and  awful  joy 
As  its  attendant  angel — I'll  say  no  more — 
Not  even  to  thee — command,  and  I'll  obey  thee. 

Lew.  Thou  casket  of  all  graces  !  fourfold  wonder 
Of  wit  and  beauty,  love  and  wisdom  !     Canst  thou 
Beatify  the  ascetic's  savagery 
To  heavenly  prudence  ?     Horror  melts  to  pity. 
And  pity  kindles  to  adoring  shower 
Of  radiant  tears  !     Thou  tender  cruelty ! 


SCENE  I.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  67 

Gay  smiling  martyrdom  !     Shall  I  forbid  thee  ? 

Limit  thy  depth  by  mine  own  shallowness  ? 

Thy  courage  by  my  weakness  ?     Where  thou  darest, 

I'll  shudder  and  submit.     I  kneel  here  spell-bound 

Before  my  bleeding  Saviour's  living  likeness 

To  worship,  not  to  cavil :  I  had  dreamt  of  such  things, 

Dim  heard  in  legends,  while  my  pitiful  blood 

Tingled  through  every  vein,  and  wept,  and  swore 

'Twas  beautiful,  'twas  Christ-hke — had  I  thought 

That  thou  wert  such : — 

Eliz.  You  would  have  loved  me  still  ? 

Lew.  I  had  gone  mad,  I  think,  at  every  parting 
At  mine  own  terrors  for  thee.     No  ;  I'll  learn  to  glory 
In  that  which  makes  thee  glorious  !     Noble  stams  ! 
I'll  call  them  rose  leaves  out  of  paradise 
Strewn  on  the  wreathed  snows,  or  rubies  dropped 
From  martyrs'  diadems,  prints  of  Jesus'  cross 
Too  truly  borne,  alas  ! 

Eliz.  I  think,  mine  own, 

X  am  forgiven  at  last  ? 

Lew.  To-night,  my  sister — 

Henceforth  I'll  clasp  thee  to  my  heart  so  fast 
Thou  shalt  not  'scape  unnoticed. — 

Eliz.  [laughing.~\  "We  shall  see — 

Now  I  must  stop  those  wise  lips  with  a  kiss. 
And  lead  thee  back  to  scenes  of  simpler  bliss. 


68  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 


Scene  II. 

A  Chamber  in  the  Castle.    Elizabeth — the  Fool — Isentrudis 
— Guta  singing. 

Far  among  the  lonely  hills, 
As  I  lay  beside  my  sheep, 
Rest  came  down  upon  my  soul, 
From  the  everlasting  deep. 

Changeless  march  the  stars  above. 
Changeless 'mom  succeeds  to  even  ; 
And  the  everlasting  hills, 
Changeless  watch  the  changeless  heaven. 


See  the  rivers,  how  they  run. 
Changeless  to  a  changeless  sea ; 
All  around  is  forethought  sure, 
Fixed  will  and  stern  decree. 


Can  the  sailor  move  the  main  ? 
Will  the  potter  heed  the  clay  ? 
Mortal !  where  the  spirit  drives. 
Thither  must  the  wheels  obey. 

Neither  ask,  nor  fret,  nor  strive  : 
Where  thy  path  is,  thou  shalt  go. 
He  who  made  the  stream  of  time 
Wafts  thee  down  to  weal  or  woe. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  69 

EUz.  That 's  a  sweet  song,  and  yet  it  does  not  chime 
With   my   heart's    inner   voice.      Where   had    you   it, 
Guta?- 
QiUa.  From  a  nun  who  was  a  shepherdess  in  her 
youth — sadly  plagued  she  was  by  a  cruel  step-mother,  till 
she  fled  to  a  convent  and  found  rest  to  her  soul. 

Fool.  No  doubt ;  nothing  so  pleasant  as  giving  up  one's 
own  will  in  one's  own  w^ay.     But  she  might  have  learnt 
all  that  without  taking  cold  on  the  hill-tops. 
EUz.  Where  then,  fool  ? 

Fool.  At  any  market-cross  where  two  or  three  rogues 
are  together,  who  have  neither  grace  to  mend,  nor  cour- 
age to  say  "  I  did  it."  Now  you  shall  see  the  shep- . 
herdess's  baby,  dressed  in  my  cap  and  bells. 

[Sings. 
When  I  was  a  greenhorn  and  young, 
And  wanted  to  be  and  to  do, 
I  puzzled  my  brains  about  choosing  my  line, 
Till  I  found  out  the  way  that  things  go. 

The  same  piece  of  clay  makes  a  tile, 

A  pitcher,  a  taw,  or  a  brick  : 

Dan  Horace  knew  life  ;  you  may  cut  out  a  saint, 

Or  a  bench  from  the  self-same  stick. 

The  urchin  who  squalls  in  a  jail, 
By  circumstance  turns  out  a  rogue  ; 
While  the  castle-born  brat  is  a  senator  born, 
Or  a  saint,  if  rehgion  's  in  vogue. 


70  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

We  fall  on  our  legs  in  this  world, 

Blind  kittens,  tossed  in  neck  and  heels : 

'Tis  dame  Circumstance  licks  Nature's  cubs  into 

shape, 
She  's  the  mill-head,  if  we  are  the  wheels. 

Then  why  puzzle  and  fret,  plot  and  dream  ? 
He  that 's  wise  will  just  follow  his  nose  ; 
Contentedly  fish,  while  he  swims  with  the  stream ; 
'Tis  no  business  of  his  where  it  goes. 

''    Eliz.  Far  too  well  sung  for  such  a  saucy  song. 
So  go. 

Fool.     Ay,  I'll  go.     Whip  the  dog  out  of  church,  and 
then  rate  him  for  being  no  Christian.  [Exit  Fool, 

Eliz.    Guta,  there  is  sense  in  that  knave's  ribaldry  : 
We  must  not  thus  baptize  our  idleness, 
And  call  it  resignation  :  Which  is  love  ? 
To  do  God's  will,  or  merely  suffer  it  ? 
I  do  not  love  that  contemplative  life :  ' 

No  !  I  must  headlong  into  seas  of  toil. 
Leap  forth  from  self,  and  spend  my  soul  on  others. 
Oh !  contemplation  palls  upon  the  spirit. 
Like  the  chill  silence  of  an  autumn  sun  : 
While  action,  like  the  roaring  southwest  wind, 
Sweeps  laden  with  elixirs,  with  rich  draughts 
Quickening  the  wombed  earth. 

Guta.  And  yet  what  bliss. 

When,  dying  in  the  darkness  of  God's  light. 


SCENE  II.J  THE    saint's    tragedy.  71 

The  soul  can  pierce  these  blinding  webs  of  nature, 
And  float  up  to  The  Nothing,  which  is  all  tilings — 
The  ground  of  being,  where  self-forgetful  silence 
Is  emptiness, — emptiness  fulness, — fuhiess  God, — 
Till  we  touch  Ilim,  and  like  a  snow-flake,  melt 
Upon  His  light-sphere's  keen  circumference ! 

Miz.  Hast  thou  felt  this  ? 

Gufa.  In  part. 

JEUz,  Oh,  happy  Guta  ! 

Mine  eyes  are  dim — and  what  if  I  mistook 
For  God's  own  self,  the  phantoms  of  my  brain  ? 
And  who  am  I,  that  my  own  will's  intent 
Should  put  me  face  to  face  with  the  hving  God  ? 
I,  thus  thrust  down  from  the  still  lakes  of  thought 
Upon  a  boiling  crater-field  of  labour. 
No  !  He  must  come  to  me,  riot  I  to  Him  ; 
If  I  see  God,  beloved,  I  must  see  Him 
In  mine  own  self: — 

Guta,  Thyself? 

Miz.  Why  start,  my  sister  ? 

God  is  revealed  in  the  crucified  : 
The  crucified  must  be  revealed  in  me  : — 
I  must  put  on  His  righteousness ;  show  forth 
His  sorrow's  glory ;  hunger,  weep  with  Him ; 
Writhe  with  His  stripes,  and  let  this  achmg  flesh 
Sink  through  His  fiery  baptism  into  death. 
That  I  may  rise  with  Him,  and  in  his  likeness 
May  ceaseless  heal  the  sick,  and  soothe  the  sad, 
And  give  away  like  Him  this  flesh  and  blood 


72  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [actii. 

To  feed  His  lambs — ay — Ave  must  die  with  Him 
To  sense — and  love — 

Guta.  To  love  ?     What,  then,  becomes 

Of  marriage  vows  ? 

Eliz.  I  know  it — so  speak  not  of  them. 

Oh  !  that 's  the  flow,  the  chasm  in  all  mj  longings, 
Which  I  have  spanned  with  cobweb  arguments. 
Yet  yawns  before  me  still,  where'er  I  turn. 
To  bar  me  from  perfection  ;  had  I  given 
My  virgin  all  to  Christ !  I  was  not  worthy  ! 
I  could  not  stand  alone  ! 

Guta.  Here  comes  your  husband. 

Eliz.  He  comes  !   my  sun  !  and  every  thrilling  vein 
Proclaims  my  weakness.  [Lewis  enters. 

Lew.  Good  news,  my  princess  ;  in  the  street  below 
Conrad,  the  man  of  God  from  Marpurg,  stands,^ 
And  from  a  bourne-stone  to  the  simple  folk 
Does  thunder  doctrine,  preaching  faith,  repentance. 
And  dread  of  all  foul  heresies  ;  his  eyes 
On  heaven  still  set,  save  when  with  searching  frown 
He  lours  upon  the  crowd,  who  round  him  cower 
Like  quails  beneath  the  hawk,  and  gape,  and  tremble. 
Now  raised  to  heaven,  now  down  again  to  hell. 
I  stood  beside  and  heard  ;  like  any  doe's 
My  heart  did  rise  and  fall. 

Eliz.  Oh,  let  us  hear  him  ! 

We  too  need  warning ;  shame,  if  we  let  pass 
Unentertained,  God's  angels  on  their  way. 
Send  for  him,  brother. 


scKNE  ii.J  THE  saint's  tragedy.  73 

Lew.  Let  a  knight  go  down 

And  say  to  the  holy  man,  the  Landgrave  Lewis 
With  humble  greetings  prays  his  blessedness 
To  make  these  secular  walls  the  spirit's  temple 
At  least  to-night. 

Eliz.  Now  go,  my  ladies,  both — 

Prepare  fit  lodgings, — ^let  your  courtesies 
Retain  in  our  poor  courts  the  man  of  God. 

\Exexmt.    Lewis  and  Elizabeth  are  left  alone. 
Now  hear  me,  best-beloved :  I  have  marked  this  man  : 
And  that  which  hath  scared  others,  draws  me  towards 

him  : 
He  has  the  graces  which  I  want ;  his  sternness 
I  envy  for  its  strength  ;  his  fiery  boldness 
I  call  the  earnestness  which  dares  not  trifle 
With  hfe's  huge  stake  ;  his  coldness  but  the  calm 
Of  one  who  long  hath  found,  and  keeps  unwavering, 
Clear  purpose  still ;  he  hath  the  gift  which  speaks 
The  deepest  things  most  simply ;  in  his  eye 
I  dare  be  happy — weak  I  dare  not  be. 
With  such  a  guide, — to  save  this  little  heart — 
The  burden  of  self-rule — Oh — half  my  work 
Were  eased,  and  I  could  live  for  thee  and  thine, 
And  take  no  thought  of  self.     Oh,  be  not  jealous. 
Mine  own,  mine  idol !     For  thy  sake  I  ask  it — 
I  would  but  be  a  mate  and  help  more  meet 
For  all  thy  knightly  vu'tues. 

Lew.  'Tis  too  true  ! 

I  have  felt  it  long  ;  we  stand,  two  Aveakling  children. 


74  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  II. 

Under  too  huge  a  burden,  while  temptations 
Like  adders  swarm  up  round  :  I  must  be  led — 
But  thou  alone  shalt  lead  me. 

Eliz.  I?  beloved! 

This  load  more  ?     Strengthen,  Lord,  the  feeble  knees  ! 

Lew.  Yes !  thou,  my  queen,  who  making  thyself  once 
mine, 
Hast  made  me  sevenfold  thine  ;  I  own  thee  guide 
Of  my  devotions,  mine  ambition's  loadstar. 
The  Saint  whose  shrine  I  serve  with  lance  and  lute ; 
If  thou  wilt  have  a  ruler,  let  him  be 
Through  thee,  the  ruler  of  thy  slave.  [Kneels  to  her. 

Eliz.  Oh,  kneel  not — 

But  grant  my  prayer — If  we  shall  find  this  man. 
As  well  I  know  him,  worthy,  let  him  be 
Director  of  my  conscience  and  my  actions 
With  all  but  thee — Within  love's  inner  shrine 
We  shall  be  still  alone — But  joy !  here  comes 
Our  embassy,  successful. 

Enter  Coxkad,  loitli  Count  Walter,  Monks,  Ladies,  ^c. 

Con.  Peace  to  this  house. 

Eliz.  Hail  to  your  holiness. 

Leiv.  The  odour  of  your  sanctity  and  might 
With  balmy  steam,  and  gales  of  Paradise 
Forestalls  you  hither. 

Eliz.  Bless  us  doubly,  master. 

With  holy  doctrine,  and  with  holy  prayers. 

Con.  Cliildren,  I  am  the  servant  of  Clirist's  servants — 


SCENE  II.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  75 

And  needs  must  yield  to  those  who  may  command 
By  right  of  creed ;  I  do  accept  your  bounty — 
Not  for  myself,  but  for  that  priceless  name, 
Whose  dread  authority  and  due  commission, 
Attested  by  the  seal  of  His  vicegerent, 
I  bear  unworthy  here  ;  through  my  vile  lips 
Christ  and  His  vicar  thank  you  ;  on  myself — 
And  these,  my  brethren,  Christ's  adopted  poor — 
A  menial's  crust,  and  some  waste  nook,  or  dog-hutch, 
Wherein  tlie  worthless  flesh  may  nightly  hide. 
Are  best  bestowed. 

Eliz.  You  shall  be  where  you  will — 

Do  what  you  will ;  unquestioned,  unobserved, 
Enjoy,  refrain ;  silence  and  solitude. 
The  better  part  which  such  like  spirits  choose. 
We  will  provide  ;  only  be  you  our  master. 
And  we  your  servants,  for  a  few  short  days  : 
Oh,  blessed  days ! 

Con.  Ah,  be  not  hasty,  madam  ! 

Think  whom  you  welcome ;  one  who  has  no  skill 
To  wink  and  speak  smooth  things ;  whom  fear  of  God 
Constrains  to  daily  wrath  ;  who  brings,  alas  ! 
A  sword,  not  peace  ;  within  whose  bones  the  word 
Bums  like  a  pent-up  fire,  and  makes  him  bold 
If  aught  in  you  or  yours  shall  seem  amiss. 
To  cry  aloud  and  spare  not ;  let  me  go — 
To  pray  for  you — as  I  have  done  long  time, 
Is  sweeter  than  to  chide  you. 

Eliz,  Then  your  prayers 


76  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  n. 

Shall  drive  home  your  rebukes  ;  for  both  we  need  you — 
Our  snares  are  many,  and  our  sins  are  more. 
So  say  not  nay — I'll  speak  with  you  apart. 

[Elizabeth  and  Conrad  retire. 

Lew.  [aside.']  Well,  Walter,  mine,  how  like  you  the 
good  legate  ? 

Wal.  Walter  has  seen  nought  of  him  but  his  eye  ; 
And  that  don't  please  him. 

Lew,  How  so,  sir  !  that  face 

Is  pure  and  meek — a  calm  and  thoughtful  eye. 

Wal.  A  shallow,  stony,  steadfast  eye ;  that  looks  at 
neither  man  nor  beast  in  the  face,  but  at  something  in- 
visible a  yard  before  him,  through  you  and  past  you,  at  a 
fascination,  a  ghost  of  fixed  purposes  that  haunts  him, 
from  which  neither  reason  nor  pity  wiU  turn  him.  I 
have  seen  such  an  eye  in  men  possessed — with  devils,  or 
with  self:  sleek,  passionless  men,  who  are  too  refined  to 
be  manly,  and  measure  their  grace  by  their  effeminacy ; 
crooked  vermin,  who  swarm  up  in  pious  times,  being 
drowned  out  of  their  earthy  haunts  by  the  spring-tide  of 
rehgion  ;  and  so  making  a  gain  of  godliness,  swim  upon 
the  first  of  the  flood,  till  it  cast  them  ashore  on  the  firm 
beach  of  wealth  and  station.  I  always  mistrust  those 
wall-eyed  saints. 

Lew.  Beware,  sir  Count,  your  keen  and  worldly  wit 
Is  good  for  worldly  uses,  not  to  tilt 
Withal  at  holy  men  and  holy  things. 
He  pleases  well  the  spiritual  sense 
Of  my  most  peerless  lady,  whose  discernment 


SCENE  II.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  77 

Is  Still  the  touchstone  of  my  grosser  fancy  : 

He  is  her  friend,  and  miije  ;  and  you  must  love  him 

Even  for  our  sakes  alone. 

[^To  a  bystander.']     A  word  with  you,  sir. 
\ln  the  mean  time  Elizabeth  and  Conrad  are  talking  together.] 

EUz.  I  would  be  taught — 

Con.  It  seems  you  claim  some  knowledge, 

By  choosing  thus  your  teacher. 

EUz.  I  would  know  more — 

Con.  Go  then  to  the  schools — and  be  no  wiser,  madam ; 
And  let  God's  charge  here  run  to  waste,  to  seek 
The  bitter  fruit  of  knowledge — hunt  the  rainbow 
O'er  hill  and  dale,  while  wisdom  rusts  at  home. 

EUz.  I  would  be  holy,  master — 

Con.  Be  so,  then. 

God's  will  stands  fair :  'tis  thine  which  fails,  if  any. 

EUz.  I  would  know  how  to  rule — 

Con.  Then  must  thou  learn 

The  needs  of  subjects,  and  be  ruled  thyself. 
Sink,  if  thou  longest  to  rise  ;  become  most  small — 
The   strength  which   comes   by  weakness    makes  thee 
great. 

EUz.  I  will. 

Lew.  What,  still  at  lessons  ?  Come,  my  fairest 'sister, 
Usher  the  holy  man  unto  his  lodgings.  [Exeunt. 

Wal.  [alone.']  So,  so,  the  birds  are  limed  : — Heaven 
grant  that  we  do  not  soon  see  them  stowed  in  separate 
cages.  Well,  here  my  prophesying  ends.  I  shall  go  to 
my  lands,  and  see  how  much  the  gentlemen,  my  neigh- 


78  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  II. 

bours,  have   stolen  oflf  them  the  last  week, — Priests  ? 
Frogs  in  the  king's  bedchamber !     What  sajs  the  song  ? 

I  once  had  a  hound,  a  right  good  hound, 
A  hound  both  fleet  and  strong  : 
He  eat  at  my  board,  and  he  slept  by  my  bed, 
And  ran  with  me  all  the  day  long. 

But  my  wife  took  a  priest,  a  shaveling  priest, 
And  "  such  friendships  are  carnal,"  quoth  he. 
So  my  wife  and  her  priest  they  drugged  the  poor 

beast 
And  the  rat's-bane  is  waiting  for  me. 

Scene  III. 
The  Gateioay  of  a  Convent.     Night.    Enter  Conrad. 
Con.    This   night   she   swears   obedience   to   me ! 
Wondrous  Lord ! 
How  hast  Thou  opened  a  path,  where  my  young  dreams 
May  find  fulfilment :  there  are  prophecies 
Upon  her,  make  me  bold.     Why  comes  she  not  ? 
She  should  be  here  by  now.     Strange,  how  I  slirink — 
I,  who  ne'er  yet  felt  fear  of  man  or  fiend. 
Obedience  to  my  will !     An  awful  charge ! 
But  yet,  to  have  the  training  of  her  sainthood  ; 
To  watch  her  rise  above  this  wild  world's  waves 
Like  floating  water-lily,  towards  heaven's  light 
Opening  its  virgin  snows,  with  golden  eye 
Mirroring  the  golden  sun ;  to  be  her  champion, 


SCENE  in.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  79 

And  war  with  fiends  for  her ;  that  were  a  "  quest " — 
That  were  true  chivah-y ;  to  bring  my  Judge 
This  jewel  for  His  crown  ;  this  noble  soul, 
Worth  thousand  prudish  clods  of  barren  clay, 
Who  mope  for  heaven  because  earth's  grapes  are  sour — 
Her,  full  of  youth,  flushed  with   the  heart's  rich  first- 
fruits. 
Tangled  in  earthly  pomp — and  earthly  love. 
Wife  ?    Saint  by  her  face  she  should  be  :  with  such  looks 
The  queen  of  heaven,  perchance,  slow  pacing  came 
Adown  our  sleeping  wards,  when  Dominic 
Sank  fainting,  drunk  with  beauty : — she  is  most  fair ! 
Pooh  !  I  know  nought  of  fairness — this  I  know, 
She  calls  herself  my  slave,  with  such  an  air 
As  speaks  her  queen,  not  slave  ;  that  shall  be  looked  to — 
She  must  be  pinioned,  or  she  will  range  abroad 
Upon  too  bold  a  wing ;  'twill  cost  her  pain — 
But  what  of  that  ?  there  are  worse  things  than  pain — 
What !  not  yet  here  ?     I'll  in,  and  there  await  her 
In  prayer  before  the  altar  ;  I  have  need  on't : 
And  shall  have  more  before  this  harvest 's  ripe. 

As  Conrad  goes  out,  Elizabeth,  Isentrudis,  and  Guta 

enter. 

Eliz.  I  saw  him  just  before  us  :  let  us  onward 
We  must  not  seem  to  loiter. 

Isen.  Then  you  promise 

Exact  obedience  to  his  sole  direction 
Henceforth  in  every  scruple  ? 


80  THR   saint's    tragedy.  lACTli. 

Eliz.  In  all  I  can, 

And  be  a  wife.  • 

Guta.  Is  it  not  a  double  bondage  ? 

A  husband's  will  is- clog  enough.     Be  sure, 
Though  free,  I  crave  more  freedom. 

Eliz,  So  do  I— 

This  servitude  shall  free  me — from  myself. 
Therefore  I'll  swear. 

Isen.  To  what  ? 

Eliz.  I  know  not  wholly  : 

But  this  I  know,  that  I  shall  swear  to-night 
To  yield  my  will  unto  a  wiser  will ; 
To  see  God's  truth  through  eyes,  which,  like  the  eagle's, 
From  higher  Alps  undazzled  eye  the  sun. 
Compelled  to  discipline  from  which  my  sloth 
Would  shrink,  unbidden, — to  deep  devious  paths 
Which  my  dull  sight  would  miss,  I  now  can  plunge. 
And  dare  life's  eddies  fearless. 

Isen.  You  will  repent  it. 

Eliz.  I  do  repent,  even  now.     Therefore  I'll  swear — 
And  bind  myself  to  that,  which  once  being  right. 
Will  not  be  less  right,  when  I  shrink  from  it. 
No  ;  if  the  end  be  gained — if  I  be  raised 
To  freer,  nobler  use,  I'll  dare,  I'll  welcome 
Him  and  his  means,  though  they  were  racks  and  flames. 
Come,  ladies,  let  us  in,  and  to  the  chapel.  [Exeunt. 


Library^ 


SCENE  IV.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  81 

Scene  IV. 
A  Chamber.     Guta,  Isentrudis,  and  a  Lady. 

Lady.  Doubtless  she  is  most  holy — but  for  wisdom — 
Say  if  'tis  wise  to  spurn  all  rules,  all  censures, 
And  mountebank  it  in  the  public  ways 
Till  she  becomes  a  jest  ? 

Isen.  How  's  this  ? 

Lady.  For  one  thing — 

Yestreen  I  passed  her  in  the  open  street. 
Following  the  vocal  line  of  chanting  priests, 
Clad  in  rough  serge,  and  with  her  bare  soft  palms 
"Wooing  the  ruthless  flints ;  the  gaping  crowd 
Unknowing  whom  they  held,  did  thrust  and  jostle 
Her  tender  limbs  ;  she  saw  me  as  she  passed — 
And  blushed  and  veiled  her  face,  and  smiled  withal. 

Isen.  Oh,  think,  she  's  not  seventeen  yet. 

€ruta.  Why  expect 

Wisdom  with  love  in  all  ?     Each  has  his  gift — 
Our  souls  are  organ  pipes  of  diverse  stop ' 
And  various  pitch ;  each  with  its  proper  notes 
Thrilling  beneath  the  self-same  breath  of  God. 
^hough  poor  alone,  yet  joined,  they  're  harmony. 
Besides,  these  higher  spirits  must  not  bend 
To  common  methods  ;  in  their  inner  world 
They  move  by  broader  laws,  at  whose  expression 
We  must  adore,  not  cavil :  here  she  comes — 
The  ministering  Saint,  fresh  from  the  poor  of  Clirist. 
6 


82  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

Elizabeth  entej-s  tcithout  cloak  or  shoes,  carrying  an  empty 
ba-'^ket. 

Isen.  What 's  here,  my  princess  ?      Guta,  fetch  her 
robes ! 
Rest,  rest,  my  child ! 

Eliz.   [^Throwing  herself  on  a  seat.~\  Oh!  I  have  seen 
such  things  ! 
I  shudder  still ;  your  bright  looks  dazzle  me  ; 
As  those  who  long  in  hideous  darkness  pent 
Bhnk  at  the  daily  light ;  this  room 's  too  gay  ! 
We  sit  in  a  cloud,  and  sing,  like  pictured  angels. 
And  say,  the  world  runs  smooth — while  right  below 
Welters  the  black,  fermenting  heap  of  life 
On  which  our  state  is  built :  I  saw  this  day 
What  we  might  be,  and  still  be  Christian  Avomen  : 
And  mothers  too — I  saw  one,  laid  in  childbed 
These  three  cold  weeks  upon  the  black  damp  straw ; 
No  nurses,  cordials,  or  that  nice  parade 
With  which  we  try  to  balk  the  curse  of  Eve — 
And  yet  she  laughed,  and  showed  her  buxom  boy. 
And  said.  Another  week,  so  please  the  Saints, 
She  'd  be  at  work  a-field.     Look  here — and  here — 

[Pointing  round  the  room. 
I  saw  no  such  things  there ;  and  yet  they  lived. 
Our  wanton  accidents  take  root,  and  grow 
To  vaunt  themselves  God 's  laws,  until  our  clothes, 
Our  gems,  and  gaudy  books,  and  cushioned  litters 
Become  ourselves,  and  we  would  fain  forget 
There  live  who  need  them  not.  [Guta  ojers  to  robe  her. 


SCENE  IV.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  83 

Let  be,  beloved — 
I  will  taste  somewhat  this  same  poverty — 
Try  these  temptations,  grudges,  gnawing  shames. 
For  which  'tis  blamed ;  how  probe  an  unfelt  evil  ? 
Would  'st  be  the  poor  man's  friend  ?     Must  freeze  with 

him — 
Test  sleepless  hunger — ^let  thy  crippled  back 
Ache  o'er  the  endless  furrow ;  how  w^as  He, 
The  blessed  One,  made  perfect  ?     Why,  by  grief — 
The  fellowship  of  voluntary  grief — 
He  read  the  tear-stained  book  of  poor  men's  souls, 
As  I  must  learn  to  read  it.     Lady  !  lady ! 
Wear  but  one  robe  the  less — forego  one  meal — 
And  thou  shalt  taste  the  core  of  many  tales 
Wliich  now  flit  past  thee,  like  a  minstrel's  songs, 
The  sweeter  for  their  sadness. — 

Lady.  Heavenly  wisdom ! 

Forgive  me ! 

Eliz.  How  ?     WTiat  "svrong  is  mine,  fair  dame  ? 

Lady.  I  thought  you,  to  my  shame — less  wise  than  holy. 
But  you  have  conquered :  I  will  test  these  sorrows 
On  mine  own  person ;  I  have  toyed  too  long 
In  painted  pinnace  down  the  stream  of  life. 
Witched  with  the  landscape,  while  the  weary  rowers 
Faint  at  the  groaning  oar :  I'll  be  thy  pupil. 
Farewell.  Heaven  bless  thy  labours  and  thy  lesson.    [Exit. 

Isen.  We  are  alone.     Now  tell  me,  dearest  lady, 
How  came  you  in  this  plight  ? 

Eliz.  Oh !  chide  not,  nurse — 


84  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

My  heart  is  full — and  yet  I  went  not  far — 

Even  here,  close  by,  where  my  own  bower  looks  down 

Upon  that  unknown  sea  of  wavy  roofs, 

I  turned  into  an  alley  'neath  the  wall — 

And  stepped  from  earth  to  hell. — The  light  of  heaven, 

The  common  air,  was  narrow,  gross,  and  dun ; 

The  tiles  did  drop  from  the  eaves ;  the  unhinged  doors 

Tottered  o'er  inky  pools,  where  reeked  and  curdled 

The  offal  of  a  life ;  the  gaunt-haunched  swine 

Growled  at  their  christened  playmates  o'er  the  scraps. 

Shrill  mothers  cursed;  wan  children  wailed;  sharp  coughs 

Rang  through  the  crazy  chambers ;  hungry  eyes 

Glared  dumb  reproach,  and  old  perplexity, 

Too  stale  for  words ;  o'er  still  and  webless  looms 

Tlie  listless  craftsmen  through  their  elf-locks  scowled  ; 

These  were  my  people  !  all  I  had,  I  gave — 

They  snatched  it  thankless ;  (was  it  not  their  own  ? 

Wrung  from  their  veins,  returning  all  too  late  ?) 

Or  in  the  new  delight  of  rare  possession, 

Forgot  the  giver ;  one  did  sit  apart, 

And  shivered  on  a  stone  ;  beneath  her  rags 

Nestled  two  impish,  fleshless,  leering  boys. 

Grown  old  before  their  youth ;  they  cried  for  bread — 

She  chid  them  down,  and  hid  her  face  and  wept ; 

I  had  given  all — I  took  ray  cloak,  m}--  shoes, 

(What  could  I  else  ?     'Twas  but  a  moment's  want 

Which  she  had  borne,  and  borne  day  after  day,) 

And  clothed  her  bare  gaunt  arms  and  purpled  feet, 

Then  slunk  ashamed  away  to  wealth  and  honour. 


SCENE  IV. J  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  85 

Conrad  enters. 
What  ?  Conrad  ?  unannounced  !     This  is  too  bold  ! 
Peace !  I  have  lent  myself — and  I  must  take 
The  usury  of  that  loan  :  your  pleasure,  master  ? 

Con.  Madam,  but  yesterday,  I  bade  your  presence, 
To  hear  the  preached  word  of  God ;  I  preached— 
And  yet  you  came  not — Where  is  now  your  oath  ? 
Where  is  the  right  to  bid,  you  gave  to  me  ? 
Am  I  your  ghostly  guide  ?  I  asked  it  not. 
Of  your  own  will  you  tendered  that,  which,  given, 
Became  not  choice,  but  duty. — What  is  here  ? 
Think  not  that  alms,  or  lowly-seeming  garments. 
Self-willed  humilities,  pride's  decent  mummers. 
Can  raise  above  obedience  ;  she  from  God 
Her  sanction  draws,  while  these  we  forge  ourselves, 
Mere  tools  to  clear  her  necessary  path. 
Go  free — thou  art  no  slave :  God  doth  not  own 
Unwilling  service,  and  His  ministers 
Must  lure,  not  drag  in  leash ;  henceforth  I  leave  thee  : 
Riot  in  thy  self-willed  fancies ;  pick  thy  steps 
By  thine  own  will-o'-the-wisp  toward  the  pit ; 
Farewell,  proud  gu-l.  [Exit.  Conrad. 

Eliz.  Oh  God  !  What  have  I  done  ? 

I  have  cast  off  the  clue  of  this  world's  maze, 
And  like   an  idiot,  let  my  boat  adrift 
Above  the  water-fall ! — I  had  no  message — 
How  's  this  ? 

Isen.  We  passed  it  by,  as  matter  of  no  moment 
Upon  the  sudden  coming  of  your  guests. 


86  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

Eliz.  No  moment !     *Tis  enough  to  have   driven  him 
forth— 
And  that 's  enough  to  damn  me :  I'll  not  chide  you — 
I  can  see  nothing  but  my  loss ;  I'll  to  him — 
I'll  go  in  sackcloth,  bathe  his  feet  with  tears — 
And  know  nor  sleep  nor  food  till  I  am  forgiven — 
And  you  must  with  me,  ladies.     Come  and  find  him. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  V. 

A  Hall  in  the  Castle.  In  the  background  a  Group  of  diseased 
and  deformed  Beggars ;  Conrad  entering^  Elizabeth 
comes  forward  to  meet  him. 

Oon.  What  dost  thou,  daughter  ? 

Miz.  Ah,  my  honoured  master ! 

That  name  speaks  pardon,  sure. 

Con.  What  dost  thou,  daughter  ? 

Miz.  I  have  been  washing  these  poor  people 's  feet. 

Con.  A  wise  humiliation. 

Eliz.  So  I  meant  it — 

And  use  it  as  a  penance  for  my  pride ; 
And  yet,  alas,  through  my  own  vulgar  likings 
Or  stubborn  self-conceit,  'tis  none  to  me. 
I  marvel  how  the  Saints  thus  tamed  their  spirits : 
Sure  to  be  humbled  by  such  toil,  but  proves. 
Not  cures,  our  lofty  mind. 

Con.  Thou  speakest  well — 

The  knave  who  serves  unto  another's  needs 
Knows  himself  abler  than  the  man  who  needs  him ; 


SCENE  v.]  THE    SAINT's    TRAGEDY.  87 

And  she  who  stoops,  will  not  forget,  that  stooping 
Implies  a  height  to  stoop  from. 

Eliz.  Could  I  see 

My  Saviour  in  His  poor ! 

Con.  Thou  shalt  hereafter  ; 

But  now  to  wash  Christ*s  feet  were  dangerous  honour 
For  weakhng  grace  ;  would  you  be  humble,  daughter, 
You  must  look  up,  not  down,  and  see  yourself 
A  paltry  atom,  sap-transmitting  vein 
Of  Christ's  vast  vine  ;  the  pettiest  joint  and  member 
Of  His  great  body ;  own  no  strength,  no  will. 
Save  that  which  from  the  ruling  head's  command 
Tlu-ough  me,  as  nerve,  derives  ;  let  thyself  die  — 
And  dying,  rise  again  to  fuller  life. 
To  be  a  whole  is  to  be  small  and  weak — 
To  be  a  part  is  to  be  great  and  mighty 
In  the  one  spirit  of  the  mighty  whole — 
The  spirit  of  the  martyrs  and  the  saints — 
The  spirit  of  the  queen,  on  whose  towered  neck 
We  hang,  blest  ringlets  ! 

Eliz,  Why  !  thine  eyes  flash  fire  ! 

Con.  But  hush !  such  words  are  not  for  courts  and  halls — 
Alone  with  God  and  me,  thou  shalt  hear  more. 

[Exit   COXRAD. 

Eliz.  As  when  rich  chanting  ceases  suddenly — 
And  the  rapt  sense  collapses  ! — Oh,  that  Lewis 
Could  feed  my  soul  thus !     But  to  work — to  work — 
What  wilt  thou,  little  maid?     Ah,  I  forgot  thee — 
The  mother  lies  in  childbed — Say,  in  time 


88  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

I'll  bring  tlie  babj  to  the  font  myself. 

It  knits  them  unto  me,  and  me  to  them, 

That  bond  of  sponsorship — How  now,  good  dame — 

Whence  then  so  sad  ? 

Woman,  An  't  please  your  nobleness, 

My  neighbour  Gretl  is  with  her  husband  laid 
In  burning  fever. 

Miz»  I  will  come  to  them. 

Woman.  Alack,  the  place  is  foul  for  such  as  you  ; 
And  fear  of  plague  has  cleared  the  lane  of  lodgers  ; 
If  you  could  send — 

Uliz,  What  ?  where  I  am  afraid 

To  go  myself,  send  others  ?     That's  strange  doctrine. 
I'll  be  with  you  anon.  [Goes  up  into  the  Hall. 

IsENTRUDis  enters  with  a  basket. 

Isen.  Why,  here  's  a  weight — These  cordials  now,  and 
simples. 
Want  a  stout  page  to  bear  them  ;  yet  her  fancy 
Is  still  to  go  alone,  to  help  herself. — 
Where  will 't  all  end  ?  In  madness,  or  the  grave  ? 
No  limbs  can  stand  these  drudgeries  ;  no  spirit 
The  fretting  harrow  which  this  ruffian  priest 
Calls  education — 
Ah !  here  comes  our  Count. 

[Count  Walter  enters  as  from  a  journey. \ 
Too  late,  sir,  and  too  seldom — Where  have  you  been 
These  four  months  past,  while  we  are  sold  for  bond-slaves 
Unto  a  peevish  friar  ? 


SCENE  v.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  89 

Wal.  Why,  my  fair  rose-bud — 

A  trifle  overblown,  but  not  less  sweet — 
I  have  been  pining  for  you,  till  my  hair 
Is  as  gray  as  any  badger's. 

Isen.  I'll  not  jest. 

Wal.  "What  ?  has  my  wall-eyed  Saint  shown  you  his 
temper  ? 

Isen.  The  first  of  his  peevish  fancies  was,  that  she 
should  eat  nothing  which  was  not  honestly  and  peaceably 
come  by. 

Wal.  WTiy,  I  heard  that  you  too  had  joined  that  sect. 

Isen.  And  more  fool  I.  But  ladies  are  bound  to  set 
an  example — while  they  are  not  bound  to  ask  where  every 
thing  comes  from:  with  her,  poor  child,  scruples  and 
starvation  were  her  daily  diet ;  meal  after  meal  she  rose 
from  table  empty,  unless  the  Landgrave  nodded  and 
winked  her  to  some  lawful  eatable ;  till  she  that  used  to 
take  her  food  like  an  angel,  without  knowing  it,  was 
thinking  from  morning  to  night  whether  she  might  eat 
this,  that,  or  the  other. 

Wal.  Poor  Eves  !  if  the  world  leaves  you  innocent,  the 
Church  will  not.  Between  the  devil  and  the  director, 
you  are  sure  to  get  your  share  of  the  apples  of  knowledge ! 

Isen.  True  enough.  She  complauied  to  Conrad  of  her 
scruples,  and  he  told  her,  that  by  the  law  was  the  knowl- 
edge of  sin. 

Wal.  But  what  said  Lewis  ? 

Isen.  As  much  bewitched  as  she,  sir.  He  has  told  her, 
and  more  than  her,  that  were  it  not  for  the  laughter  and 


I 


90  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  ti. 

ill-will  of  his  barons,  he  would  join  her  in  the  same 
abstmence.  But  all  tliis  is  child  's  play,  to  the  friar 's 
last  outbreak. 

Wal.  Ah !  The  sermon  which  you  all  forgot,  when  the 
Marchioness  of  Misnia  came  suddenly  ?  I  heard  that  war 
had  been  proclaimed  on  that  score  ;  but  what  terms  of 
peace  were  concluded  ? 

Ise7i.  Terms  of  peace  ?  Do  you  call  it  peace  to  be 
delivered  over  to  his  nuns'  tender  mercies,  myself  and 
Guta,  as  well  as  our  lady, — as  if  we  had  been  bond-slaves 
and  blackamoors  ? 

Wal.  You  need  not  have  submitted. 

Isen.  What  ?  could  I  bear  to  see  my  poor  child  wander- 
ing up  and  down,  wringing  her  hands  like  a  mad  wo- 
man— I  who  have  lived  for  no  one  else  this  sixteen  years  ? 
Guta  talked  sentiment, — called  it  a  glorious  cross,  and  so 
forth. — I  took  it  as  it  came. 

Wdl.  And  got  no  quarter.  Til  warrant. 

Isen.  Don't  talk  of  it — my  poor  back  tingles  at  the 
thought ! 

Wal.  The  sweet  saints  think  every  woman  of  the  world 
no  better  than  she  should  be  ;  and  without  meaning  to  be 
envious,  owe  you  all  a  grudge  for  past  flirtations.  As  I 
am  a  knight,  now  it 's  over,  I  like  you  all  the  better  for  it. 

Isen.  What? 

Wal.  When  I  see  a  woman  who  will  stand  by  her 
word,  and  two  who  will  stand  by  their  mistress.  And  the 
monk,  too — there  's  mettle  in  him.  I  took  him  for  a 
canting  carpet-haunter ;  but  be  sure,  the  man  who  will 


SCENE  VI.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  91 

bully  his  own  patrons,  has  an  honest  purpose  in  him, 
tliough  it  bears  strange  fruit  on  this  wicked  hither-side  of 
the  grave.  Now,  my  fair  nymph  of  the  birchen-tree,  use 
your  interest  to  find  me  supper  and  lodging ;  for  your 
elegant  squires  of  the  trencher  look  surly  on  me  here :  I 
am  the  prophet  who  has  no  honour  in  his  own  country. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  VI. 

Dawn.     A  rocky  path  leading  to  a  mountain  Chapel.     A  Peasant 
sitting  on  a  stone  with  dog  and  Crossbow. 

Peasant  singing. 
Over  the  wild  moor,  in  reddest  dawn  of  morning, 
Gayly  the  huntsman  down  green  droves  must  roam : 
Over  the  wild  moor,  in  grayest  wane  of  evening, 
•    Weary  the  huntsman  comes  wandering  home  ; 

Home,  home, 
If  he  has  one.     Who  comes  here  ? 

[A    Woodcutter  enters  with  a  laden  ass.'] 
What  art  going  about  ? 

Woodcutter.  To  warm  other  folks'  backs. 
Peas.  Thou  art  in  the  common  lot — Jack  earns  and 
Gill  spends — therein  lies  the  true  division  of  labour. 
What 's  thy  name  ? 

Woodc.  Be'est  a  keeper,  man,  or  a  charmer,  that  dost 
so  catechize  me  ? 

Peas.  Both — I  am  a  keeper,  for  I  keep  all  I  catch  ; 
and  a  charmer,  for  I  drive  bad  spirits  out  of  honest 
men's  turnips. 


92  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  n. 

Woodc.  Mary  sain  us,  what  be  they  Hke  ? 

Peas.  Four-legged  kitchens  of  leather,  cooking  farmers' 
crops  into  butcher's  meat  by  night,  without  leave  or 
license. 

Woodc.  By  token,  thou  'rt  a  deer  stealer  ? 

Peas.  Stealer,  quoth  he?  I  have  dominion.  I  do  what 
I  like  with  mine  own. 

Woodc.  Thine  own  ? 

Peas.  Yea,  marry — for  saith  the  priest,  man  has  domin- 
ion over  the  beast  of  the  field  and  the  fowl  of  the  air : 
so  I,  being  as  I  am  a  man,  as  men  go,  have  dominion  over 
the  deer  in  my  trade,  as  you  have  in  yours  over  sleep- 
mice  and  woodpeckers. 

Woodc.  Then  every  man  has  a  right  to  be  a  poacher. 

Peas.  Every  man  has  his  gift,  and  the  tools  go  to  him 
that  can  use  them.  Some  are  born  workmen  ;  some  have 
souls  above  work.  I'm  one  of  that  metal.  I  was  meant 
to  own  land  and  do  nothing ;  but  the  angel  that  deals  out 
babies'  souls,  mistook  the  cradles,  and  spoilt  a  gallant 
gentleman  !  "Well — I  forgive  him  !  there  were  many 
Lorn  the  same  night — and  work  wears  the  wits. 

Woodc.  I  had  sooner  draw  in  a  yoke  than  hunt  in  a 
halter.     Had'st  best  repent  and  mend  thy  ways. 

Peas.  The  way- warden  may  do  that  :  I  wear  out  no 
ways,  I  go  across  country.  Mend  ?  saith  he  ?  Why  I  can 
but  starve  at  worst,  or  groan  with  the  rheumatism,  which 
you  do  already.  And  who  would  reek  and  wallow  o' 
nights  in  the  same  straw,  like  a  stalled  cow,  when  he  may 
have  his  choice  of  all  the  clean  holly  bushes  in  the  forest  ? 


SCENE  vi.J  THE  saint's  tragedy.  93 

Who  would  grub  out  his  life  in  the  same  croft,  wlien  he 
has  free-warren  of  all  fields  between  this  and  Rhine  ? 
Not  I.  I  have  dirtied  mj  share  of  spades  myself;  but 
I  slipped  my  leash  and  went  self-hunting. 

Woodc.  But  what  if  thou  be  caught  and  brought  up 
before  the  prince  ? 

Peas.  He  don't  care  for  game.  He  has  put  down  his 
kennel,  and  keeps  a  tame  saint  instead  :  and  when  I  am 
driven  in,  I  shall  ask  my  pardon  of  her  in  St.  John's 
name.  They  say  that  for  his  sake  she  '11  give  away  the 
shoes  off  her  feet. 

Wbodc.  I  would  not  stand  in  your  shoes  for  all  the 
top  and  lop  in  the  forest.  Murder!  Here  comes  a 
ghost !  Run  up  the  bank — shove  the  jackass  into  the 
ditch. 

[A  white  figure  comes  up  the  path  with  lights.] 

Peas.  A  ghost  or  a  watchman,  and  one 's  as  bad  as 
the  other — so  we  may  take  to  cover  for  the  time. 

[Elizabeth  e7it€rs  meanly  clad,  carrying  her  new-born  infant ; 
Isentrudis  following  with  a  taper  and  gold  pieces  on  a 
salcer.     Elizabeth  passes,  singing.'] 

Deep  in  the  warm  vale  the  village  is  sleeping. 
Sleeping  the  firs  on  the  bleak  rock  above  ; 
Nought  wakes,  save  grateful  hearts,  silently  creeping 
Up  to  their  Lord  in  the  might  of  their  love. 

What  Thou  hast  given  to  me.  Lord,  here  I  bring  Thee, 
Odour,  and  light,  and  the  magic  of  gold ; 


94  THE  saint's  tragedy.  Tact  ri. 

Feet  which  must  follow  Thee,  lips  which  must  sing 

Thee, 
Limbs  which  must  ache  for  Thee  ere  they  grow 

old. 

What  Thou  hast  given  to  me.  Lord,  here  I  tender, 
Life  of  mine  own  life,  the  fruit  of  my  love ; 
Take  him,  yet  leave  him  me,  till  I  shall  render 
Count  of  the  precious  charge,  kneeling  above. 

[  They  pass  up  the  path.     The  peasants  come  out.'] 

Peas.  1^0  ghost,  but  a  mighty  pretty  wench,  with  a 
mighty  sweet  voice. 

Woodc.  Wench,  indeed !  Where  be  thy  manners  ? 
'Tis  her  Ladyship — the  Princess. 

Peas.  The  Princess  !  Ay,  I  thought  those  little  white 
feet  were  but  lately  out  of  broadcloth — still,  I  say,  a 
mighty  sweet  voice — I  wish  she  had  not  sung  so  sweetly 
— it  makes  things  to  arise  in  a  body's  head,  does  that 
singing  :  a  wonderful  handsome  lady  !  a  royal  lady ! 

Woodc.  But  a  most  unwise  one.  Did  ye  mind  the 
gold?  If  I  had  such  a  trencher  full,  it  should  sleep 
warm  in  a  stocking,  instead  of  being  made  a  brother  to 
owls  here,  for  every  rogue  to  snatch  at. 

Peas.  Why  then  ?  who  dare  harm  such  as  her,  man  ? 

Woodc.  Nay,  nay,  none  of  us,  we  are  poor  folks,  we 
fear  God  and  the  king.  But  if  she  had  met  a  gentle- 
man now — heaven  help  her !  Ah !  thou  has  lost  a 
chance — thou  might'st  have  run  out  promiscuously,  and 


SCENE  ATtl.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  95 

down  on  thy  knees,  and  begged  thy  pardon  for  the  new 
comer's  sake.     There  was  a  chance,  indeed. 

Peas.  Pooh,  man,  I  have  done  notliing  but  lose  chances 
all  my  days.  I  fell  into  the  fire  the  day  I  was  christened, 
and  ever  since  I  am  like  a  fresh-trimmed  fir-tree ;  every 
foul  feather  sticks  to  me. 

Woodc.  Go,  shrive  thyself,  and  the  priest  will  scrub 
off  thy  turpentine  with  a  new  haircloth  ;  and  now,  good 
day,  the  maids  are  a-waiting  for  their  firewood. 

Peas.  A  word  before  you  go — Take  warning  by  me — 
Avoid  that  same  serpent,  wisdom — Pray  to  the  Saints  to 
make  you  a  blockhead — Never  send  your  boys  to  school 
— For  Heaven  knows,  a  poor  man  that  will  live  honest, 
and  die  in  his  bed,  ought  to  have  no  more  scholarship 
than  a  parson,  and  no  more  brains  than  your  jackass. 

Scene  VII. 

The  Gateway  of  a  Castle.    Elizabeth  and  her  suite  standing 
at  the  top  of  a  flight  of  steps.     Mob  below. 

Peas.  Bread !  Bread  !  Bread !  give  us  bread  ;  we 
perish. 

\st  Voice.  Aj,  give,  give,  give !  God  knows  we  're 
long  past  earning. 

2c?  Voice.  Our  skeleton  children  lie  along  in  the 
roads — 

3d  Voice.  Our  sheep  drop  dead  about  the  frozen 
leas — 

4:th  Voice,  Our  harness  and  our  shoes  are  boiled  for 
food — 


96  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  n. 

Old  MarCs  Voice.  Starved,  withered,  autumn  hay  that 
thanks  the  scythe ! 
Send  out  your  swordsmen,  mow  the  dry  bents  down. 
And  make  this  long  death  short — we  '11  never  struggle. 

All.  Bread,  bread ! 

Eliz.  Ay,  bread — Where  is  it  knights  and  servants  ? 
"Why  butler,  seneschal,  this  food  forthcomes  not  ? 

Butler.  Alas,  we  've  eaten  all  ourselves :  heaven  knows 
The  pages  broke  the  buttery  hatches  down — 
The  boys  were  starved  almost. 

Voice  below.  Ay,  she  can  find   enough  to   feast  her 
minions.  , 

WomarCs  Voice.    How  can  she   know  what   'tis,   for 
months  and  months 
To  stoop  and  straddle  in  the  clogging  fallows. 
Bearing  about  a  living  babe  within  you  ? 
And  then  at  night  to  fat  yourself  and  it 
On  fir-bark,  madam,  and  water. 

Eliz.  My  good  dame — 

That  which  you  bear,  I  bear :  for  food,  God  knows, 
I  have  not  tasted  food  this  livelong  day — 
Nor  will,  till  you  are  served.     I  sent  for  wheat. 
From  Koln  and  from  the  Rhine-land  days  ago. 
Oh  God  !  why  comes  it  not  ? 

Enter  from  below  Count  Walter,  with  a  Merchant. 

Wal.  Stand  back ;  you  '11  choke  me,  rascals : 
Archers,  bring  up  those  mules.     Here  comes  the  com — 
Here  comes  your  guardian  angel,  plenty-laden, 


scEXK  VII.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  97 

With  no  white  wings,  but  good  white  wheat,  my  boys. 
Quarters  on  quarters — if  you  '11  pay  for  it. 

Eliz,  Oh  !  give  him  all  he  asks. 

Wal.  The  scoundrel  wants 

Three  times  its  value. 

Merchant.    '  Not  a  penny  less — 

I  bought  it  on  speculation — I  must  live — 
I  get  my  bread  by  buying  corn  that 's  cheap, 
And  seUing  where  'tis  dearest.     Mass,  you  need  it. 
And  you  must  pay  according  to  your  need. 

Moh.  Hang  him !  hang  all  regraters — hang  the  fore- 
stalling dog ! 

Wal.  Driver,  lend  here  the  halter  off  that  mule. 

Eliz.  Nay,  Count ;  the  corn  is  his,  and  his  the  right 
To  fix  conditions  for  his  own. 

Mer.  Well  spoken  ! 

A  wise  and  royal  lady !     She  will  see 
The  trade  protected.     Why,  I  kept  the  corn 
Three  months  on  venture.     Now,  so  help  me  Saints, 
I  am  a  loser  by  it,  quite  a  loser — 
So  help  me  Saints,  I  am. 

Eliz.  You  will  not  sell  it 

Save  at  a  price,  which,  by  the  bill  you  tender. 
Is  far  beyond   our  means.     Heaven  knows,  I  grudge 

not — 
I  have  sold  my  plate,  have  pawned  my  robes  and  jewels, 
Mortgaged  broad  lands  and  castles  to  buy  food — 
And  now  I  have  no  more — Abate,  or  trust 
Our  honour  for  the  difference. 
7 


98  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

Mer.  Not  a  penny — 

I  trust  no  nobles.     I  must  make  my  profit — 
I'll  have  my  price,  or  take  it  back  again. 

^liz.  Most  miserable,  cold,  short-sighted  man, 
Who  for  thy  selfish  gains  dost  welcome  make 
God's  wrath,  and  battenest  on  thy  fellows'"  woes. 
What !  wilt  thou  turn  from  heaven's  gate,  open  to  the'e, 
Through  which  thy  charity  may  passport  be, 
And  wm  thy  long  greed's  pardon  ?     Oh,  for  once 
Dare  to  be  great ;  show  mercy  to  thyself ! 
See  how  that  boiling  sea  of  human  heads 
Waits  open-mouthed  to  bless  thee :  speak  the  word, 
And  their  triumphant  quire  of  jubilation 
Shall  pierce  God's  cloudy  floor  with  praise  and  prayers, 
And  drown  the  accuser's  count  in  angels'  ears. 

[In  the  mean  time  Walter,  Sfc,  have  been  throwhuj  down  the  wheat 
to  the  Mob.] 

Moh.  God   bless   the   good   Count ! — Bless   the  holy 
princess — 
Hurrah  for  wheat — Hurrah  for  one  full  stomach. 

Mer.  Ah !  that 's  my  wheat !  treason,  my  wheat,  my 
money  ! 

Eliz.  Where  is  the  wretch's  wheat  ? 

Wal.  Below,  my  lady  ; 

We  counted  on  the  charm  of  your  sweet  words, 
And  so  did  for  him,  what,  your  sermon  ended, 
He  would  have  done  himself. 

Knight.  'Twere  rude  to  doubt  it. 

Mer.  Ye  rascal  barons  ! 


SCKNK  VII.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  99 

What !  Are  we  burghers  monkeys  for  your  pastime  ? 
We  '11  clear  the  odds.  [Seizes  Walteb. 

Wal.  Soft,  friend  ! — a  worm  will  turn. 
Voices  below.  Throw  him  down  ! 
Wal.  Dost  hear  that,  friend  ? 

Those  pups  are  keen-toothed ;  they  have  eat  of  late 
Worse  bacon  to  their  bread  than  thee.     Come,  come, 
Put  up  thy  knife  ;  we  '11  give  thee  market-price — 
And  if  thou  must  have  more — why  take  it  out 
In  board  and  lodging  in  the  castle  dungeon. 

[Walter  leads  lam  out ;  the  Mob,  ^-c,  disperse. 
Eliz.  Now  then — there's   many   a   one   lies  faint  at 
home — 
I'll  go  to  them  myself. 

J^en.  What  now  ?  start  forth 

In  this  most  bitter  frost,  so  thinly  clad  ? 

Eliz.  Tut,  tut,  I  wear  my  working  dress  to-day, 
And  those  who  work,  robe  lightly — 

Isen.  Nay,  my  child, 

For  once  keep  up  your  rank. 

Eliz.  Then  I  had  best 

Roll  to  their  door  in  lacqueyed  equipage, 
And  dole  my  halfpence  from  a  satin  purse — 
I  am  their  sister — I  must  look  like  one. 
I  am  their  queen — I'll  prove  myself  the  greatest 
By  being  the  minister  of  all.     So  come — 
Now  to  my  pastime.     [^Aside.'] 

And  in  happy  toil 
Forget  this  whirl  of  doubt — We  are  weak,  we  are  weak, 


100  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [ACT  H. 

Only  when  still — put  thou  thine  hand  to  the  plough, 
The  spirit  drives  thee  on. 

Isen.  You  live  too  fast ! 

Eliz.  Too  fast  ?     We  live  too  slow — our  gummy  blood 
Without  fresh  purging  airs  from  heaven,  would  choke 
Slower  and  slower,  till  it  stopped  and  froze. 
God  !  fight  we  not  wuthin  a  cursed  world. 
Whose  very  air  teems  thick  with  leagued  fiends — 
Each  word  we  speak  has  infinite  effects — 
Each  soul  we  pass  must  go  to  heaven  or  hell — 
And  this  our  one  chance  through  eternity 
To  drop  and  die,  like  dead  leaves  in  the  brake, 
Or  like  the  meteor  stone,  though  whelmed  itself, 
Kindle  the  dry  moors  into  fruitful  blaze — 
And  yet  we  live  too  fast ! 

Be  earnest,  earnest,  earnest ;  mad,  if  thou  wilt  : 
Do  what  thou  dost  as  if  the  stake  were  heaven. 
And  that  thy  last  deed  ere  the  judgment-day. 
When  all 's  done,  nothing 's  done.    There 's  rest  above — 
Below  let  work  be  death,  if  work  be  love  ! 

[Exeunt. 
Scene  VIII. 

A  Chamher  in  the  Castle.  Counts  Walter,  Hugo,  ^^c,  Ab- 
bot,  and  Knights. 

Count  Hugo.  I  can't  forget  it,  as  I  am  a  Christian 
man.  To  ask  for  a  stoup  of  beer  at  breakfast,  and  be 
told,  there  was  no  beer  allowed  in  the  house — her  Lady- 
ship had  given  aU  the  malt  to  the  poor. 

Abbot.  To  give  away  the  staff  of  hfe,  eh  ? 


SCENE  vm.]  THE    SAIXT's    TRAGEDY.  101 

a  Hugo,  The  life  itself,  sir,  the  life  itself.  All  that 
barley,  that  would  have  warmed  many  an  honest  fellow's 
coppers,  wasted  in  filthy  cakes. 

Abbot.  The  parent  of  seraphic  ale  degraded  into  ple- 
beian dough  !  Indeed,  sir,  we  have  no  right  to  lessen 
wantonly  the  amount  of  human  enjoyment ! 

C.  Wal.  In  heaven's  name,  what  would  you  have  her 
do,  while  the  people  were  eating  grass  ? 

C.  Hugo.  Nobody  asked  them  to  eat  it ;  nobody  asked 
them  to  be  there  to  eat  it ;  if  they  will  breed  like  rabbits, 
let  them  feed  like  rabbits,  say  I — I  never  married  till  I 
could  keep  a  wife. 

Abbot.  Ah,  Count  Walter !  How  sad  to  see  a  man  of 
your  sense  so  led  away  by  his  feelings  !  Had  but  this 
dispensation  been  left  to  work  itself  out,  and  evolve  the 
blessing  impUcit  in  all  heaven's  chastenings  !  Had  but 
the  stem  benevolences  of  providence  remained  undis- 
turbed by  her  ladyship's  carnal  tenderness — what  a  boon 
had  this  famine  been ! 

G.  Wal.  How  then,  man  ? 

Abbot.  How  many  a  poor  soul  would  have  been  lying 
— Ah,  blessed  thought ! — in  Abraham's  bosom  ;  who 
must  now  toil  on  still  in  this  vale  of  tears  ! — Pardon  this 
pathetic  dew — I  cannot  but  feel  as  a  Churchman. 

M  Count.  Look  at  it  in  this  way,  sir.  There  are  too 
many  of  us — too  many — Where  you  have  one  job  you 
have  three  workmen.  Why,  I  threw  three  hundred 
acres  into  pasture  myself  this  year — it  saves  money,  and 
risk,  and  trouble,  and  tithes. 


102  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [ACT  II. 

G.  Wal.  What  would  you  say  to  tlie  Princess,  who 
talks  of  breaking  up  all  her  parks  to  wheat  next  year  ? 

3c?  Count.  Ask  her  to  take  on  the  thirty  families,  who 
were  just  going  to  tramp  off  those  three  hundred  acres 
into  the  llhine-land,  if  she  had  not  kept  them  in  both 
senses  this  winter,  and  left  them  on  my  hands — once  beg- 
gars, always  beggars. 

C.  Hugo.  Well,  I'm  a  practical  man,  and  I  say,  the 
sharper  the  famine,  the  higher  are  prices,  and  the  higher 
I  sell,  the  more  I  can  spend ;  so  the  money  circulates, 
sir,  that's  the  word — like  water — sure  to  run  downwards 
again  ;  and  so  it 's  as  broad  as  it 's  long ;  and  here 's  a 
health — if  there  was  any  beer — to  the  farmer's  friends, 
"  A  bloody  war  and  a  wet  harvest." 

Abbot.  Strongly  put,  though  correctly.  For  the  self- 
interest  of  each  it  is,  which  produces  in  the  aggregate 
the  happy  equilibrium  of  all. 

G.  Wal.  Well — the  world  is  right  well  made,  that's 
certain ;  and  He  who  made  the  Jews'  sin  our  salvation 
may  bring  plenty  out  of  famine,  and  comfort  out  of  covet- 
ousness.  But  look  you,  sirs,  private  selfishness  may  be 
public  weal,  and  yet  private  selfishness  be  just  as  surely 
damned,  for  all  that. 

3d  Count.  I  hold,  sir,  that  every  alms  is  a  fresh  badga 
of  slavery. 

C.  Wal.  I  don't  deny  it. 

3d  Count.  Then  teach  them  independence. 

C.  Wal.  How  ?  By  tempting  them  to  turn  thieves, 
when  begging  fails  ?     By  keeping  their  stomachs  just  at 


SCENE  VIII.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  103 

desperation-point  ?  By  starving  them  out  here,  to  march 
off,  starving  all  the  way,  to  some  town,  in  search  of  em- 
ployment, of  which,  if  they  find  it,  they  know  no  more 
than  my  horse  ?  Likely  !  No,  sir,  to  make  men  of 
them,  put  them  not  out  of  the  reach,  but  out  of  the  need 
of  charity. 

Sd  Count,  And  how,  prithee?  By  teaching  them, 
like  our  fair  Landgravine,  to  open  their  mouths  for  all 
that  drops  ?  Thuringia  is  become  a  kennel  of  beggai's 
in  her  hands. 

O.  Wal.  In  hers  ?     Li  ours,  sir  ! 

Abbot.  Idleness,  sir,  deceit,  and  immorality,  are  the 
three  children  of  this  same  barbarous  self-indulgence  in 
alms-giving.  Leave  the  poor  alone.  Let  want  teach 
them  the  need  of  self-exertion,  and  misery  prove  the 
foolishness  of  crime. 

C.  Wal.  How  ?  Teach  them  to  become  men  by  leav- 
ing them  brutes  ? 

Abbot.  Oh,  sir,  there  we  step  in,  with  the  consolations 
and  instructions  of  the  faith. 

0.  Wal.  Ay,  but  while  the  grass  is  growing  the  steed 
is  starving  ;  and  in  the  mean  time,  how  wiU  the  callow 
chick  Grace,  stand  against  the  tough  old  game-cock, 
Hunger  ? 

3d  Count.  Then  how,  in  the  name  of  patience,  would 
you  have  us  alter  things  ? 

C.  Wal.  We  cannot  alter  them,  sir — but  they  will  be 
altered,  never  fear. 

Omnes.  How  ?     How  ? 


104  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

G.  Wal.  Do  you  see  this  hour-glass? — Here's  the 
state — this  air  stands  for  the  idlers  ; — this  sand  for  the 
workers.  When  all  the  sand  has  run  to  the  bottom,  God 
in  heaven  just  turns  the  hour-glass,  and  then — 

C.  Huyo,  The  world 's  upside  down. 

G.  Wal.  And  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  ! 

Omnes.  On  us !     Do  you  call  us  the  idlers  ? 

G.  Wal.  Some  dare  to  do  so — But  fear  not — In  the 
fulness  of  time,  all  that 's  lightest  is  sure  to  come  to  the 
the  top  again. 

G.  Hugo.  But  what  rascal  calls  us  idlers  ? 

Omnes.  Name,  name. 

G.  Wal.  Wliy,  if  you  ask  me — I  heard  a  shrewd  ser- 
mon the  other  day  on  that  same  idleness  and  immorality 
text  of  the  Abbot's. — 'Twas  Conrad,  the  Princess's 
director,  preached  it.  And  a  fashionable  cap  it  is, 
though  it  will  fit  more  than  will  like  to  wear  it.  Shall  I 
give  it  you  ?     Shall  I  preach  ? 

G.  Hugo.  A  tub  for  Varila  !  Stand  on  the  table,  now, 
toss  back  thy  hood  Hke  any  Franciscan,  and  preach 
away. 

G.  Wal.  Idleness,  quoth  he,  (Conrad,  mind  you,) — ■ 
idleness  and  immorality  !  "Where  have  they  learnt  them, 
but  from  you  nobles  ?  There  was  a  saucy  monk,  for 
you.  But  there 's  worse  coming.  Keligion  ?  said  he, 
how  can  they  respect  it,  when  they  see  you,  '  their  bet- 
ters,' fattening  on  church  lands,  neglecting  sacraments, 
defying  excommunications,  trading  in  benefices,  hiring 
the  clergy  for  your  puppets  and  flatterers,  making  the 


SCENE  VIIl.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  105 

ministry,  the  episcopate  itself,  a  lumber-room  wherein  to 
stow  away  the  idiots  and  spendthrifts  of  your  families, 
the  confidants  of  your  mistresses,  the  cast-off  pedagogues 
of  your  boys  ? 

Omnes.  The  scoundrel ! 

G.  Wal.  Was  he  not  ? — But  hear  again — Immorality  ? 
roars  he, ;  and  who  has  corrupted  them  but  you  ?  Have 
not  you  made  every  castle  a  weed-bed,  from  which  the 
newest  corruptions  of  the  Court  stick  like  thistle-down, 
about  the  empty  heads  of  stable-boys  and  serving-maids  ? 
Have  you  not  kept  the  poor  worse  housed  than  your  dogs 
and  your  horses,  worse  fed  than  your  pigs  and  your  sheep  ? 
Is  there  an  ancient  house  among  you,  again,  of  which  vil- 
lage gossips  do  not  whisper  some  dark  story  of  lust  and 
oppression,  of  decrepit  debauchery,  of  hereditary  doom  ? 

Omnes.     We  '11  hang  this  monk. 

C.  Wal.  Hear  me  out,  and  you'll  bum  him.  His 
sermon  was  like  a  hail-storm,  the  tail  of  the  shower  the 
sharpest.  Idleness  ?  he  asked  next  of  us  all :  How  will 
they  work,  when  they  see  you  landlords  sitting  idle  above 
them,  in  a  fool's  paradise  of  luxury  and  riot,  never  looking 
down  but  to  squeeze  from  them  an  extra  drop  of  honey — 
like  sheep-boys  stuffing  themselves  with  blackberries  while 
the  sheep  are  licking  up  flukes  in  every  ditch  ?  And  now 
you  wish  to  leave  the  poor  man  in  the  slough,  whither 
your  neglect  and  your  example  have  betrayed  him,  and 
made  his  too  apt  scholarship  the  excuse  for  your  own 
remorseless  greed  .'^  As  a  Christian,  I  am  ashamed  of 
you  all :  as  a  Churchman,  doubly  ashamed  of  those  pre- 


106  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

lates,  hired  stalking-horses  of  the  rich,  who  would  fain 
gloss  over  their  own  sloth  and  cowardice  with  the  wisdom 
which  Cometh  not  from  above,  but  is  earthly,  sensual, 
devilish ;  aping  the  heartless  cant  of  an  aristocracy  who 
made  them — use  them — and  despise  them.  That  was  his 
sermon. 

Abbot.  Paul  and  Barnabas  !  What  an  outpouring  of 
the  spirit ! — Were  not  his  hoodship  the  Pope's  legate, 
now — accidents  might  happen  to  him,  going  home  at 
night ;  eh  ?  Sir  Hugo  ? 

C.  H.     If  he  would  but  come  my  way  ! 

For  "  the  mule  it  was  slow,  and  the  lane  it  was  dark. 
When  out  of  the  copse  leapt  a  gallant  young  spark, 
Says,   ''Tis  not  for  nought  you've  been  begging  all 

day: 
So  remember  your  toll,  since  you  travel  our  way.' " 


Abbot.     Hush  !     Here  comes  the  Landgrave. 


Lewis  enters. 
Lew.     Good  morrow,  gentles.     Why  so  warm,  Count 
Walter  ? 
Your  blessing.  Father  Abbot :  what  deep  matters 
Have  called  our  worships  to  this  conference  ? 

G.  11.  \^Aside^  Up,  Count ;  you  are  spokesman. 
Sc?  Count.  Most  exalted  Prince, 

Whose  peerless  knighthood,  like  the  remeant  sun. 
After  too  long  a  night,  regilds  our  clay. 


SCENE  VIII.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  107 

Late  silvered  by  the  reflex  lynar  beams 
Of  your  celestial  lady's  matron  graces — 

Abbot.  \_Aside.']  Ut  vinum  optimum  amati  mei 
Dulciter  descendens ! 

3rf  Count.      Think   not  we  mean  to  praise  or  disap- 
prove— 
The  acts  of  saintly  souls  must  only  plead 
In  foro  conscientiae :  grosser  minds, 
Whose  humbler  aim  is  but  the  public  weal, 
Know  of  no  mesh  which  holds  them :  yet,  great  prince, 
Some  dare  not  see  their  sovereign's  strength  postponed 
To  private  grace,  and  sigh,  that  generous  hearts. 
And  ladies'  tenderness,  too  oft  forgetting 
That  wisdom  is  the  highest  charity. 
Will  interfere,  m  pardonable  haste, 
With  heaven's  stern  providence. 

Lew.  We  see  your  drift. 

Go,  sirrah,  \_To  a  Page,]  pray  the  Princess  to  illumine 
Our  conclave  with  her  beauties.     'Tis  our  manner 
To  hear  no  cause,  of  gentle  or  of  simple. 
Unless  the  accused  and  the  accuser  both 
Meet  face  to  face. 

dd  Count.  Excuse,  high-mightiness, — 

W"e  bring  no  accusation ;  facts,  your  Highness, 
Wait  for  your  sentence,  not  our  praejudicium. 

Lew.     Give  us  the  facts,  then,  sir ;  in  the  lady's  pres- 
ence. 
Her  nearness  to  ourselves — perchance  her  reasons — 
May  make  them  somewhat  dazzling. 


108  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

Ahb.  Nay,  my  Lord ; 

I,  as  a  Churchman,  though  with  these  your  nobles 
Both  in  commission  and  opinion  one, 
Am  yet  most  loth,  my  lord,  to  set  my  seal 
To  aught  which  this  harsh  world  might  call  complaint 
Against  a  princely  saint — a  chosen  vessel — 
An  argosy  celestial — in  whom  error 
Is  but  the  young  luxuriance  of  her  grace. 
The  Count  of  Varila,  as  bound  to  neither, 
For  both  shall  speak,  and  all  which  late  has  passed 
Upon  the  matter  of  this  famine  open. 

C.  Wal.      Why,  if  I  must  speak  out — then  I'll  confess 
To  have  stood  by,  and  seen  the  Landgravine 
Do  most  strange  deeds ;  and  in  her  generation 
Show  no  more  wit  than  other  babes  of  light. 
First,  she  has  given  away,  to  starving  rascals, 
The  stores  of  grain,  she  might  have  sold,  good  lack  ! 
For  any  price  she  asked ;  has  pawned  your  jewels, 
And  mortgaged  sundry  farms,  and  all  for  food. 
Has  sunk  vast  sums  in  fever-hospitals. 
For  rogues  whom  famine  sickened — almshouses 
For  sluts  whose  husbands  died — schools  for  their  brats. 
Most  sad  vagaries  !  but  there 's  worse  to  come. 
The  dulness  of  the  Court  has  ruined  trade : 
The  jewellers  and  clothiers  don't  come  near  us 
The  sempstresses,  my  lord,  and  pastry-cooks 
Have  quite  forgot  their  craft ;  she  has  turned  all  heads, 
And  made  the  ladies  starve,  and  wear  old  clothes, 
And  run  about  with  her  to  nurse  the  sick, 


^; 


SCENE  VIII.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  109 

Instead  of  putting  gold  in  circulation 
By  balls,  sham-fights,  and  dinners ;  'tis  most  sad,  sir, 
But  she  has  swept  your  treasury  out  as  clean — 
As  was  the  widow's  cruse,  who  fed  Elijah. 

Leio.     Ruined,  no  doubt !    Lo !  here  the  culprit  comes. 

[Elizabeth  enters. 
Come  hither,  dearest.     These,  my  knights  and  nobles, 
Lament  your  late  unthrifl ;  (your  conscience  speaks 
The  causes  of  their  blame ; )  and  wish  you  warned, 
As  wisdom  is  the  highest  charity, 
No  more  to  interfere,  from  private  feeling 
With  heaven's  stem  laws,  or  maim  the  sovereign's  wealth, 
To  save  superfluous  villains'  worthless  lives. 

Eliz.     Lewis ! 

Lew.  Not  I,  fair,  but  my  counsellors, 

In  courtesy,  need  some  reply. 

Eliz.  My  Lords ; 

Doubtless,  you  speak  but  as  your  duty  bids  you  : 
I  know  you  love  my  husband ;  do  you  think 
My  love  is  less  than  yours  ?     'Twas  for  his  honor 
I  dared  not  lose  a  single  silly  sheep 
Of  all  the  flock  which  Grod  had  trusted  to  him. 
True,  I  had  hoped  by  this — No  matter  w^hat — 
Since  io  your  sense  it  bears  a  different  hue. 
I  keep  no  logic.     For  my  gifts,  thank  God, 
They  cannot  be  recalled ;  for  those  poor  souls. 
My  pensioners — even  for  my  husband's  knightly  name, 
Oh !  ask  not  back  that  slender  loan  of  comfort 
My  folly  has  procured  them :  if,  my  Lords, 


110  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [ACT  II. 

My  public  censure,  or  disgraceful  penance 
May  expiate,  and  yet  confimi  my  waste, 
I  offer  this  poor  body  to  the  buffets 
Of  sternest  justice  :  where  I  dared  not  spare 
My  husband's  lands,  I  dare  not  spare  myself. 

Lew.     No  !  no  !   My  noble  sister  ?  What  ?  my  Lords 
If  her  love  move  you  not,  her  wisdom  may.  - 
She  knows  a  deeper  statecraft,  Sirs,  than  you ; 
She  will  not  throw  away  the  substance,  Abbot, 
To  save  the  accident ;  waste  living  souls 
To  keep,  or  hope  to  keep,  the  means  of  life. 
Our  wisdom  and  our  swords  may  fill  our  coffers. 
But  will  they  breed,  us  men,  my  Lords,  or  mothers  ? 
God  blesses  in  the  camp  a  noble  rashness  : 
Then  why  not  in  the  store-house  ?     He  that  lends 
To  Him,  need  never  fear  to  lose  his  venture. 
Spend  on,  my  Queen.     You  will  not  sell  my  castles  ? 
Nay,  you  must  leave  us  Neuburg,  love,  and  Wartburg. 
Their  worn  old  old  stones  will  hardly  pay  the  cai;riage, 
And  foreign  foes  may  pay  untimely  visits. 

C.  Wal.     And  home  foes,  too :  if  these  philosophers 
Put  up  the  curb,  my  Lord,  a  half-link  tighter, 
The  scythes  will  be  among  our  horses'  legs 
Before  next  harvest. 

Lew.  Fear  not  for  our  welfare  : 

"We  have  a  guardian  here,  well  skilled  to  keep 
Peace  for  our  seneschal,  while  angels,  stooping 
To  catch  the  tears  she  sheds  for  us  in  absence. 
Will  sain  us  from  the  roaming  adversary 


scEXK  vin.j  TiiE  saint's  tragedy.  Ill 

With  scents  of  Paradise.     Farewell,  my  Lords. 

Eliz.     Nay, — I   must    pray   your  knighthoods — You 
must  honor 
Our  dais  and  bower  as  private  guests  to-day. 
Thanks  for  your  gentle  warning ;  may  my  weakness 
To  such  a  sin  be  never  tempted  more  ! 

{Exeunt  Elizabeth  and  Lewis. 

C  Wal.  Thus,  as  if  virtue  were  not  its  own  reward, 
is  it  paid  over  and*  above  with  beef  and  ale  ?  Weep  not 
tender-hearted  Count!  Though  "generous  hearts,"  my 
Lord,  "  and  ladies'  tenderness,  too  oft  forget " — Truly 
spoken !  Lord  Abbot,  does  not  your  spiritual  eye  discern 
coals  of  fire  on  Count  Hugo's  head  ? 

C.  Hugo.    Where,  and  a  plague  ?    Where  ? 

C.  Wal.  Nay,  I  spake  mystically, — there  is  nought 
there  but  what  beer  will  quench  before  nightfall.  Here, 
peeping  rabbit,  \_To  a  page  at  the  door,']  out  of  your  bur- 
row, and  show  these  gentles  to  their  lodgings.  We  will 
meet  at  the  gratias. 

[  They  go  out. 

C.  Wal.  \_Alone.'\  Well : — if  Hugo  is  a  brute,  he  at 
least  makes  no  secret  of  it.  He  is  an  old  boar,  and  hon- 
est ;  he  wears  his  tushes  outside,  for  a  warning  to  all  men. 
But  for  the  rest ! — Whited  sepulchres  !  and  not  one  of 
them  but  has  half  persuaded  himself  of  his  own  benevo- 
lence. Of  all  cruelties,  save  me  from  your  small  pedant, 
—  your  closet  philosopher,  who  has  just  courage  enough 
to  bestride  his  theory,  without  wit  to  see  whither  it  will 
carry  him.     Li   experience  —  a  child :    in   obstinacy  a 


112  THE    saint's    TRAGEDT.  '  [ACT  II. 

woman :  in  nothing  a  man,  but  in  logic-chopping :  instead 
of  God's  grace,  a  few  schoolboy  saws  about  benevolence, 
and  industry,  and  independence — there  is  his  metal.  If 
the  world  will  be  mended  on  his  principles,  well.  If  not, 
poor  world ! — but  principles  must  be  carried  out,  though 
through  blood  and  famine :  for  truly,  man  was  made  for 
theories,  not  theories  for  man.  A  doctrine  is  these  men's 
God — touch  but  that  shrine,  and  lo !  your  simpering  phi- 
lanthi'opist  becomes  as  ruthless  as  a  Dominican.         [Exit. 

Scene  IX. 
Elizabeth's  Bower.    Elizabeth  and  Lewis  slttbig  together. 
SONG. 
Eltz.  Oh !  that  we  two  were  Maying 

Down  the  stream  of  the  soft  spring  breeze ; 
Like  children  with  violets  playing 
In  the  shade  of  the  whispering  trees. 

Oh  !  that  we  two  sat  dreaming 

On  the  sward  of  some  sheep-trimmed  down, 

Watching  the  white  mist  steammg 

Over  river  and  mead  and  town. 

Oh !  that  we  two  lay  sleeping 

In  our  nest  in  the  churchyard  sod. 

With  our  limbs  at  rest  on  the  quiet  earth's  breast, 

And  our  souls  at  home  with  God ! 

Lew.    Ah,  turn  away  those  swarthy  diamonds'  blaze  ! 
Mine  eyes  are  dizzy,  and  my  faint  sense  reels 
In  the  rich  fragrance  of  those  purple  tresses. 


SCEXEIX.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  113 

Oh,  to  be  thus,  and  thus,  day  after  day ! 
To  sleep,  and  wake,  and  find  it  yet  no  di-eam — 
My  atmosphere,  my  houi-ly  food,  such  bliss 
As  to  have  dreamt  of,  five  short  years  agone, 
Had  seemed  a  mad  conceit. 

Eliz.  Five  years  agone  ? 

Lew,    I  know  not ;  for  upon  our  marriage-day 
I  slipped  from  time  into  eternity ; 
Where  each  day  teems  with  centuries  of  life. 
And  centuries  were  but  one  wedding  mom. 

Eliz.    Lewis,  I  am  too  happy !  floating  higher 
Than  e'er  my  will  had  dared  to  soar,  though  able ; 
But  circumstance,  which  is  the  will  of  God, 
Beguiled  my  cowardice  to  that,  which,  darling, 
I  found  most  natural,  when  I  feared  it  most. 
Love  would  have  had  no  strangeness  in  mine  eyes. 
Save  from  the  prejudice  which  others  taught  me — 
They  should  know  best.     Yet  now  this  wedlock  seems 
A  second  infancy's  baptismal  robe, 
A  heaven,  my  spirit's  antenatal  home, 
Lost  in  bUnd  pining  girlhood — ^found  now,  found  ! 
\_Aside.']  What  have  I  said  ?     Do  I  blaspheme  ?    Alas  ! 
I  neither  made  these  thoughts,  nor  can  unmake  them. 

Lew.    Ay,  marriage  is  the  life-long  miracle, 
The  self-begetting  wonder,  daily  fresh  ; 
The  Eden,  where  the  spirit  and  the  flesh 
Are  one  again,  and  new-bom  souls  walk  free. 
And  name  in  mystic  language  all  things  new. 
Naked,  and  not  ashamed.  [Eliz.  hides  her  face. 

8 


114  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  ll. 

EUz,  Oh  !  God  !  were  that  true  ! 

\Clasps  him  round  the  neck. 
There,  there,  no  more — 
I  love  thee,  and  I  love  thee,  and  I  love  thee — 
More  than  rich  thoughts  can  dream,  or  mad  lips  speak ; 
But  how,  or  why,  whether  with  soul  or  body, 
I  will  not  know.    Thou  art  mine. — Why  question  further  ? 
\_Aside.']  Ay,  if  I  fall  by  loving,  I  will  love. 
And  be  degraded  ! — how  ?  by  my  own  troth  plight  ? 
No,  but  by  thinking  that  I  fall. — 'Tis  written 
That  whatsoe'er  is  not  of  faith  is  sin. — 
Oh !  Jesu  Lord  !    Hast  Thou  not  made  me  thus  ? 
Mercy !     My  brain  will  burst :  I  cannot  leave  him ! 

Lew.     Beloved,  if  I  went  away  to  war — 

EUz.     Oh,  God !     More  wars  ?     More  partings  ? 

Lew.  Nay,  my  sister— 

My  trust  but  longs  to  glory  in  its  surety  : 
What  would'st  thou  do  ? 

EUz.  What  I  have  done  already. 

Have  I  not  followed  thee,  through  drought  and  frost, 
Through  flooded  swamps,  rough  glens,  and  wasted  lands, 
Even  while  I  panted  most  with  thy  dear  loan 
Of  double  life  ? 

Lew.  My  saint !  but  what  if  I  bid  thee 

To  be  my  seneschal,  and  here  with  prayers. 
With  sober  thiift,  and  noble  bounty  shine. 
Alone  and  peerless  ?     And  suppose — nay,  start  nc?t — 
I  only  said  suppose — the  war  was  long. 
Our  camps  far  off,  and  that  some  winter,  love, 


SCENE  IX.]  THE    SAINT's    TRAGEDY.  115 

Or  two,  pent  back  this  Eden  stream,  where  now 

Joys  upon  joys  like  sunlit  ripples  pass, 

Alike,  yet  ever  new. — What  would'st  thou  do,  love  ? 

Eliz.    A  year  ?  A  year  !  A  cold,  blank,  widowed  year  ! 
Strange,  that  mere  words  should  chill   my  heart  with 
fear — 

This  is  no  hall  of  doom — 
No  impious  Soldan's  feast  of  old, 
Where  o'er  the  madness  of  the  foaming  gold, 
A  fleshless  lumd  its  woe  on  tainted  walls  enrolled. 
Yet  by  thy  wild  words  raised, 
In  Love's  most  careless  revel, 
Looms  through  the  future's  fog  a  shade  of  evil. 
And  all  my  heart  is  glazed. — 
Alas  !     What  would  I  do  ? 
I  would  lie  down  and  weep,  and  weep. 
Till  the  salt  current  of  my  tears  should  sweep 
My  soul,  Hke  floating  weed,  adown  a  fitful  sleep, 

A  linprerino^  half-niorht  throup^h. 
Then  when  the  mocking  bells  did  wake 
My  hollow  eyes  to  twihght  gray, 
I  would  address  my  spiritless  limbs  to  pray. 
And  nerve  myself  with  stripes  to  meet  the  weary  day 
And  labour  for  thy  sake. 
Until  by  vigils,  fasts  and  tears. 
The  flesh  was  grown  so  spare  and  light. 
That  I  could  slip  its  mesh,  and  flit  by  night 
O'er  sleeping  sea  and  land  to  thee — or  Christ — till  morning 
light. 


116  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [ACT  U. 

Peace  !     Why  these  fears  ? 
Life  is  too  short  for  mean  anxieties : 
Soul !  thou  must  work,  though  blindfold. 

Come,  beloved, 
I  must  turn  robber. — I  have  begged  of  late 
So  oft,  I  fear  to  ask. — Give  me  thy  purse. 

Lew.  No,  not  my  purse : — stay — Where  is   all  that 
gold 
I  gave  you,  when  the  Jews  came  here  from  Koln  ? 

Miz.  Oh,  those  few  coins  ?     I  spent  them  all  next  day 
On  a  new  chapel  on  the  Eisenthal ; 
There  were  no  choristers  but  nightingales — 
No  teachers  there  save  bees  :  how  long  is  this  ? 
Have  you  turned  niggard  ? 

Lew.  Nay  ;  go  ask  my  steward — 

Take  what  you  will — this  purse  I  want  myself. 

Miz.  Ah !  now  I  guess.     You  have  some  trinket  for 
me — 
You  promised  late  to  buy  no  more  such  baubles — 
And  now  you  are  ashamed. — Nay,  I  must  see — 

[Snatches  his  purse.     Lewis  hides  his  face. 
Ah,  God !  what 's  here  ?     A  new  crusader's  cross  ? 
Whose  ?     Nay,  nay — turn  not  from  me ; — I  guess  all — 
You  need  not  tell  me  :  it  is  very  well — 
According  to  the  meed  of  my  deserts  : 
Yes — very  well. 

Lew.  Ah !  love — look  not  so  calm — 

-EUz.  Fear  not — I  shall  weep  soon. 

How  long  is  it  since  you  vowed  ? 


SCENE  IX.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  117 

Lew.  A  week  or  more. 

Eliz.  Brave  heart !     And  all  that  time  your  tender- 
ness 
Kept  silence,  knowing  my  weak  foolish  soul.  [  Weeps. 

Oh,  love  !     Oh,  life  !     Late  found,  and  soon,  soon  lost ! 
A  bleak  sunrise, — a  treacherous  morning  gleam, — 
And  now,  ere  mid-day,  all  my  sky  is  black 
With  whirling  drifts  once  more !     The  march  is  fixed 
For  this  day  month,  is  't  not  ? 

Lew.  Alas,  too  true ! 

Eliz.  O  break  not,  heart  !  [Conrad  enters. 

Ah  !  here  my  master  comes, 
No  weeping  before  him. 

Lew.  Speak  to  the  holy  man  : 

He  can  give  strength  and  comfort,  which  poor  I 
Need  even  more  than  you.     Here,  saintly  master, 
I  leave  her  to  your  holy  eloquence.     Farewell ! 
Grod  help  us  both  !  \Exit  Lewis. 

Eliz.  (^Rising.)  You  know,  Sir,  that  my  husband  has 

taken  the  cross  ? 
Con.  I  do  ;  all  praise  to  God  ! 
Eliz.  But  none  to  you : 

Hard-hearted  !     Am  I  not  enough  your  slave  ? 
Can  I  obey  you  more  when  he  is  gone 
Than  now  I  do  ?     Wherein,  pray,  has  he  hindered 
This  holiness  of  mine,  for  which  you  make  me 
Old  ere  my  womanhood  !  [Conrad  offers  to  go. 

Stay,  Sir,  and  tell  me 
Is  this  the  out-come  of  your  "  father's  care  ?  " 


118  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

"Was  it  not  enough  to  poison  all  my  joys 

With  foulest  scruples  ? — show  me  nameless  sms, 

Where  I,  unconscious  babe,  blessed  God  for  all  things, 

But  you  must  thus  intrigue  away  my  night 

And  plunge  me  down  this  gulf  of  widowhood  ! 

And  I  not  twenty  yet — a  girl — -an  orphan — 

That  cannot  stand  alone  !     Was  I  too  happy  ? 

Oh,  God  !  what  lawful  bliss  do  I  not  buy 

And  balance  with  the  smart  of  some  sharp  penance  ? 

Hast  thou  no  pity  ?     None  ?     Thou  drivest  me 

To  fiendish  doubts  :  Thou,  Jesus'  messenger ! 

Con.  This  to  your  master ! 

Eliz.  This  to  any  one 

Who  dares  to  part  me  from  my  love. 

Con.  'Tis  weU— 

In  pity  to  your  weakness  I  must  deign 
To  do  what  ne'er  I  did — excuse  myself. 
I  say,  I  knew  not  of  your  husband's  purpose  ; 
God's  spu'it,  not  I,  moved  him  :  perhaps  I  sinned 
In  that  I  did  not  urge  it  myself. 

Eliz.  Thou  traitor ! 

So  thou  would'st  part  us  ? 

Con.  Aught  that  makes  thee  greater 

I'll  dare,  this  very  outburst  proves  in  thee 
Passions  unsanctified,  and  carnal  leanings 
Upon  the  creatures  thou  would'st  fain  transcend. 
Thou  badest  me  cure  thy  weakness.     Lo,  God  brings 

thee 
The  tonic  cup  I  feared  to  mix : — be  brave — 


SCENE  IX.]  THE    saint's    tragedy.  119 

Drink  it  to  the  lees,  and  thou  shalt  find  within 
A  pearl  of  price. 

Eliz.  'Tis  bitter ! 

Con,  Bitter,  truly : 

Even  I,  to  whom  the  storm  of  earthly  love 
Is  but  a  dim  remembrance — Courage  !     Courage  ! 
There  's  glory  in  't ;  fulfil  thy  sacrifice  ; 
Give  up  thy  noblest  on  the  noblest  service 
God's  sun  has  looked  on,  since  the  chosen  twelve 
Went  conquering,  and  to  conquer,  forth.     K  he  fall — 

Eliz.  Oh,  spare  mine  ears  ! 

Con.  He  falls  a  blessed  martyr, 

To  bid  thee  welcome  through  the  gates  of  pj^arl ; 
And  next  to  his  shall  thine  own  guerdon  be 
If  thou  devote  him  willing  to  thy  God. 
Wilt  thou  ? 

Eliz.         Have  mercy ! 

Con.  Wilt  thou  ?     Sit  not  thus 

Watching  the  sightless  air :  no  angel  in  it 
But  asks  thee  what  I  ask :  the  fiend  alone 
Delays  thy  coward  flesh.     Wilt  thou  devote  him  ? 

Eliz.  I  will  devote  him ; — a  crusader's  wife  ! 
m  glory  in  it.     Thou  speakest  words  from  God — 
And  God  shall  have  him  !     Go  now — good,  my  master ; 
My  poor  brain  swims.  [Exit  Conkad. 

Yes — a  crusader's  wife  ! 
And  a  crusader's  widow  ! 

[Bursts  into  tears,  and  dashes  herself  on  the  Jloor.] 


120  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

Scene  X. 

A  Street  in  the  Town  of  Schmalcald.  Bodies  of  Crusading 
Troops  defiling  past.  Lewis  and  Elizabeth  with  their 
Suite  in  the  foreground. 

Leiv.  Alas !  the  time  is  near  ;  I  must  be  gone — 
There  are  our  liegemen ;  how  you  '11  welcome  us, 
Returned  in  triumph,  bowed  with  paynim  spoils, 
Beneath  the  victor  cross,  to  part  no  more  ! 

JEltz.  Yes — we  shall  part  no  more,  where  next  we  meet. 
Enough  to  have  stood  here  once  on  such  an  errand ! 

Lew.  The  bugle  calls. — Farewell,  my  love,  my  lady, 
Queen,  sister,  saint !     One  last  long  kiss. — Farewell ! 

£Jliz.  One  kiss — and  then  another — and  another — 
Till  "'tis  too- late  to  go — and  so  return — 
Oh  God !  forgive  that  craven  thought !     There,  take  him 
Since  Thou  dost  need  him.     I  have  kept  him  ever 
Thine,  when  most  mine ;  and  shall  I  now  deny  Thee  ? 
Oh  !  go — yes,  go — Thou  'It  not  forget  to  pray, 

[Lewis  goes. 
With  me,  at  our  old  hour  ?     Alas  !  he  's  gone 
And  lost — thank  God  he  hears  me  not — ^forever. 
Why  look'st  thou  so,  poor  girl  ?     1  say,  forever. 
The  day  I  found  the  bitter  blessed  cross. 
Something  did  strike  my  heart  like  keen  cold  steel. 
Which  quarries  daily  there  with  dead  dull  pains — 
Whereby  I  know  that  we  shall  meet  no  more. 
Come  !  Home,  maids,  home !  Prepare  me  widow's  weeds — 
For  he  is  dead  to  me,  and  I  must  soon 


SCENE  X.]  THE    SAINT's    TRAGEDY.  121 

Die  too  to  him,  and  many  things ;  and  mark  me — 
Breathe  not  his  name,  lest  this  love-pampered  heart 
Should  sicken  to  vain  yearnings — Lost !  lost !  lost ! 

Lady.  Oh  stay,  and  watch  this  pomp. 

Eliz.  Well  said — we  '11  stay ;  so  this  bright  enterprise 
Shall  blanch  our  private  clouds,  and  steep  our  soul 
Drunk  with  the  spirit  of  great  Christendom. 

Crusader  Chords. 

\Men  at  Arms  pass  singing.] 
The  tomb  of  Grod  before  us, 
Our  fatherland  behind. 
Our  ships  shall  leap  o'er  billows  steep, 
Before  a  charmed  wind. 

Above  our  van  great  angels 

Shall  fight  along  the  sky  ; 

While  martyrs  pure  and  crowned  saints, 

To  God  for  rescue  cry. 

The  red-cross  knights  and  yeomen 
Throughout  the  holy  town. 
In  faith  and  might,  on  left  and  right, 
Shall  tread  the  paynim  down. 

Till  on  the  Mount  Moriah 
The  Pope  of  Rome  shall  stand  ; 
The  Kaiser  and  the  King  of  France 
Shall  guard  him  on  each  hand. 


122  THE    saint's    tragedy.  I  act  II. 

There  shall  he  rule  all  nations, 
With  crozier  and  with  sword  ; 
And  pour  on  all  the  heathen, 
The  wrath  of  Christ  the  Lord. 

[Women — bystmiders.] 
Christ  is  a  rock  in  the  bare  salt  land, 
To  shelter  our  knights  from  the  sun  and  sand ; 
Christ  the  Lord  is  a  summer  sun, 
To  ripen  the  grain  while  thej  are  gone. 

Then  you  who  fight  in  the  bare  salt  land, 
And  you  who  work  at  home. 
Fight  and  work  for  Christ  the  Lord, 
Until  His  kingdom  come. 

[Old  Knights  pass.] 
Our  stormy  sun  is  sinking  ; 
Our  sands  are  running  low ; 
In  one  fair  fight,  before  the  night. 
Our  hard-worn  hearts  shall  glow. 

We  cannot  pine  in  cloister  ; 

We  cannot  fast  and  pray  ; 

The  sword  which  built  our  load  of  guilt, 

Must  wipe  that  guilt  away. 

We  know  the  doom  before  us  ; 
The  dangers  of  the  road ; 


SCENE  X.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  123 

Have  mercy,  mercy,  Jesu  blest, 
When  we  lie  low  in  blood. 


When  we  lie  gashed  and  gory, 
The  holy  walls  within, 
Sweet  Jesu,  think  upon  our  end, 
And  wipe  away  our  sin. 

[Boy  Crusaders  pass.] 

The  Christ-child  sits  on  high ; 
He  looks  through  the  merry  blue  sky ; 
He  holds  in  His  hand  a  bright  lily-band, 
For  the  boys  who  for  Him  die. 

On  holy  Mary's  arm, 
Wrapt  safe  from  terror  and  harm, 
.    Lulled  by  the  breeze  in  the  paradise  trees, 
Their  souls  sleep  soft  and  warm. 

Knight  David,  young  and  true, 

The  giant  Soldan  slew. 

And  our  ai-ms  so  light,  for  the   Christ-child's 

right. 
Like  noble  deeds  can  do. 

[Young  Knights  pass.] 

The  rich  East  blooms  fragrant  before  us ; 

All  Fairy-land  beckons  us  forth  ; 

We  must  follow  the  crane  in  her  flight  o'er  the  main, 

From  the  posts  and  the  moors  of  the  North. 


1 24  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  II. 

Our  sires  in  the  youth  of  the  nations 
Swept  westward  through  plunder  and  blood, 
But  a  holier  quest  calls  us  back  to  the  East, 
We  fight  for  the  kingdom  of  God. 

Then  shrink  not,  and  sigh  not,  fair  ladies, 
The  red  cross  which  flames  on  each  arm  and  each  shield, 
Through  philtre  and  spell,  and  the  black  charms  of  hell, 
Shall  shelter  our  true  love  in  camp  and  in  field. 

[Old  Honk  looking  after  them.] 

Jerusalem,  Jerusalem ! 

The  burying-place  of  God ! 

"Why  gay  and  bold,  in  steel  and  gold. 

O'er  the  paths  where  Christ  hath  trod  ? 

[The  Scene  closes. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  125 


ACT  ni. 

Scene  I. 

A  Chamber  in  the  Wartburg.    Elizabeth  sitting  in  Widow's 
weeds  ;  Gut  a  and  Isentrudis  by  her. 

Isen.  What  ?    Always  thus,  my  princess  ?    Is  this  wise, 
By  day  with  fasts,  and  ceaseless  coil  of  labour  ; 
About  the  ungracious  poor — hands,  eyes,  feet,  brain, 
O'ertasked  alike — 'mid  sin  and  filth,  which  make 
Each  sense  a  plague — by  night  with  cruel  stripes, 
And  weary  watchings  on  the  freezing  stone. 
To  double  all  your  griefs,  and  burn  life's  candle. 
As  village  gossips  say,  at  either  end  ? 
The  good  book  bids  the  heavy-hearted  drink, 
And  so  forget  their  woe. 

Miz.  'Tis  written  too 

In  that  same  book,  nurse,  that  the  days  shall  come. 
When  the  bridegroom  shall  be  taken  away — and  then — 
Then  shall  they  mourn  and  fast :  I  needed  weaning 
From  sense  and  earthly  joys  ;  by  this  way  only 
May  I  win  God  to  leave  in  mine  own  hands 
My  luxury's  cure  :  oh  !  I  may  bring  him  back, 
By  working  out  to  its  full  depth  the  chastening 
The  need  of  which  his  loss  proves  :  I  but  barter 
Less  grief  for  greater-r— pain  for  widowhood. 

Isen,  And  death  for  life — your  cheeks  are  wan  and 
sharp 


126  THE  saint's  tragedy.  r^CT  ril. 

As  any  three-days'  moon — you  are  shifting  always 
Uneasily  and  stiff,  now,  on  your  seat, 
As  from  some  secret  pain. 

Eliz,  "Why  watch  me  thus  ? 

You  cannot  know — and  yet  you  know  too  much — 
I  tell  you,  nurse,  pain 's  comfort,  when  the  flesh 
Aches  with  the  aching  soul  in  harmony. 
And  even  in  woe,  we  are  one :  the  heart  must  speak 
Its  passion's  strangeness  in  strange  symbols  out, 
Or  boil,  till  it  bursts  inly. 

Guta.  Yet,  methinks. 

You  might  have  made  this  widowed  solitude 
A  holy  rest — a  spell  of  soft  gray  weather. 
Beneath  whose  fragrant  dews  all  tender  thoughts 
Might  bud  and  burgeon. 

Eliz.  That 's  a  gentle  dream  ; 

But  nature  shows  nought  like  it :  every  winter. 
When  the  great  sun  has  turned  his  face  away. 
The  earth  goes  down  into  the  vale  of  grief, 
And  fasts,  and  weeps,  and  shrouds  herself  in  sables, 
Leaving  her  wedding-garlands  to  decay — 
Then  leaps  in  spring  to  his  returning  kisses — 
As  I  may  yet ! — 

Isen.  There,  now — my  foolish  child  ! 

You  faint :  come — come  to  your  chamber — 

Eliz.  Oh,  forgive  me  ! 

But  hope  at  times  throngs  in  so  rich  and  full. 
It  mads  the  brain  like  wine  :  come  with  me,  nurse, 
Sit  by  me,  lull  me  calm  with  gentle  tales 


SCENE  I.J  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  127 

Of  noble  ladies  wandering  in  the  wild  wood, 
Fed  on  chance  earth-nuts,  and  wild  strawberries, 
Or  milk  of  silly  sheep,  and  woodland  doe. 
Or  how  fair  Magdalen  'mid  desert  sands 
Wore  out  in  prayer  her  lonely  blissful  years. 
Watched  by  bright  angels,  till  her  modest  tresses 
Wove  to  her  pearled  feet  their  golden  shroud. 
Come,  open  all  your  lore. 

[Sophia  and  Agnes  enter.^ 

My  mother-in-law ! 
\Aside.'\  Shame  on  thee,  heart !  why  sink,  whene'er  we 
meet? 
Soph.  Daughter,  we   know  of  old   thy   strength,  of 
metal 
Beyond  us  worldlings  :  shi*ink  not,  if  the  time 
Be  come  which  needs  its  use — 

Eliz.  What  means  this  preface  ?     Ah !  your  looks  are 
big 
With  sudden  woes — speak  out. 

Soph.  Be  calm,  and  hear 

The  will  of  God  toward  my  son,  thy  husband. 

Eliz.  What  ?    is  he  captive  ?     Why  then — ^what  of 
that? 
There  are   friends   will   rescue   him — there 's   gold  for 

ransom — 
We  '11  sell  all  our  castles — live  in  bowers  of  rushes — 
Oh  God !  that  I  were  with  him  in  the  dungeon  ! 
Soph.  He  is  not  taken. 
Eliz.  No !  he  would  have  fought  to  the  death ! 


128  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  III. 

There 's  treachery  !     What  pajTiim  dog  dare  face 
His  lance,  who  naked  braved  yon  lion's  rage, 
And  eyed  the  cowering  monster  to  his  den  ? 
Speak !     lias  he  fled  ?  or  worse  ? 

Soph,  Child,  he  is  dead. 

Eliz.  [  Clasping  her  hands  on  her  knees.']     The  world 

is  dead  to  me,  and  all  its  smiles  ! 
Isen.  Oh,   woe !    my   prince !    and   doubly   woe,   my 
daughter ! 

[Elizabeth  springs  up  and  rushes  out. 
Oh,  stop  her — stop  my  child  !     She  will  go  mad — 
Dash  herself  down — Fly — Fly — She  is  not  made 
Of  hard,  light  stuff,  like  you. 

[ISENTRUDis  and  GuTA  run  out. 
Soph,  I  had  expected  some  such  passionate  outbreak 
At  the  first  news  :  you  see  now.  Lady  Agnes, 
These  saints,  who  fain  would   'wean  themselves  from 

earth,' 
Still  yield  to  the  affections  they  despise 
When  the  game 's  earnest — Now — ere  they  return — 

Your  brother,  child,  is  dead 

Agnes.  I  know  it  too  well. 

So   young — so  brave — so   blest! — And  she — she  loved 

him — 
Oh !  I  repent  of  all  the  foolish  scoffs 
With  which  I  crossed  her. 

Soph.  Yes — the  Landgrave 's  dead- 

Attend  to  me — Alas !  my  son  !  my  son  ! 
He  was  my  first-bom  !     But  he  has  a  brother — 


SCENE  I.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  120 

Agnes  !  we  must  not  let  this  foreign  gipsy, 
Who,  as  you  see,  is  scarce  her  own  wits'  mistress, 
Flaunt  sovereign  over  us,  and  our  broad  lands, 
To  ray  son's  prejudice — There  are  barons,  child, 
Who  will  obey  a  knight,  but  not  a  saint : 
I  must  at  once  to  them. 

Agnes.  Oh,  let  me  stay ! 

Soph.   As   you    shall   please — Your    brother's   land- 


Is  somewhat  to  you,  surely — and  your  smile^^^^jT 
Are  worth  gold  pieces  in  a  court  intrigue 
For  her,  on  her  OAvn  principles,  a  downfa 
Is  a  chastening  mercy — and  a  likely  one. 


Agnes.  Oh  !  let  me  stay,  and  comfort  hy  ^!  ^^^^^jB^**^ 
Soph.  Romance! 

You  girls  adore  a  scene — as  lookers  on. 

[Exit  Sophia. 

Agnes.  \_Alone.']  Well  spoke  the  old  monks,  peaceful 
watching  Hfe's  turmoil, 
"  Eyes  which  look  heaven-ward,  weeping  still  we  see  : 
God's  love  with  keen  flame  purges,  like  the  lightning 

flash. 
Gold  which  is  purest,  purer  still  must  be." 

[GuTA  enters.'] 
Alas  !     Returned  alone  !     Where  has  my  sister  been  ? 
Guta.  Thank  heaven,  you  hear  alone,  for  such  sad 
sight  would  haunt 
Henceforth  your  young  hopes — crush  your  shuddering 
fancy  down 

9 


130  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  III. 

With  dread  of  like  fierce  anguish. 

Agnes.  Speak  !     Oh,  speak ! 

Guta.  You  saw  her  bound  forth :   we  towards    lier 

bower  in  haste 
Ran  trembling :  spell-bound  there,  before  her  bridal-bed 
She  stood,  while  wan  smiles  flickered,  like  the  northern 

dawn. 
Across  her  worn  cheek's  ice-field ;   keenest   memories 

then 
Rushed  with  strong  shudderings   through  her — as  the 

winged  shaft 
Springs  from  the  tense  nerve,  so  her  passion  hurled  her 

forth. 
Sweeping,  like  fierce  ghost,  on  through  hall  and  corridor. 
Tearless,  with  wide  eyes  staring,  while  a  ghastly  wind 
Moaned  on  through  roof  and  rafter,  and  the  empty  helms 
Along  the  walls  rang  clattering,  and  above  her  waved 
Dead  heroes'  banners :    swift  and  yet  more  swift  she 

drove 
Still  seeking  aimless ;  sheer  against  the  opposing  wall 
At  last    dashed    reckless — there   with    frantic    fingers 

clutched 
Blindly  the  ribbed  oak,  till  that  frost  of  rage 
Dissolved  itself  in  tears,  and  like  a  babe. 
With  inarticulate  moans,  and  folded  hands. 
She  followed  those  who  led  her,  as  if  the  sun 
On  her  life's  dial  had  gone  back  seven  years. 
And  she  were  once  again  the  dumb  sad  child 
We  knew  her  ere  she  married. 


SCENE  I.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  131 

Isen.  \_entering.']  As  after  wolf  wolf  presses,  leaping 
through  the  snow-glades, 
So  woe  on  woe  throngs  surging  up. 

Guta.  What?  treason? 

Isen.  Treason,  and  of  the  foulest.     From  her  state 
she 's  rudely  thrust ; 
Her  keys  are  seized  ;  her  weeping  babies  pent  from  her : 
The  wenches  stop  their  sobs  to  sneer  askance. 
And  greet  their  fallen  censor's  new  mischance. 

Agnes.  Alas !     Who  dared  to  do  this  wrong  ? 

Isen.  Your  mother  and  your  mother's  son — 
Judge  you,  if  it  was  knightly  done. 

Guta.  See  !  see !  she  comes,  with  heaving  breast, 
With  bursting  eyes,  and  purple  brow  : 
Oh,  that  the  traitors  saw  her  now ! 
They  know  not,  sightless  fools,  the  heart  they  break. 
[Elizabeth  enters  slowly.] 

Eliz.  He  is  in  purgatory  now  !     Alas  ! 
-Angels !  be  pitiful !  deal  gently  with  him  ! 
His  sins  were  gentle  !     That 's  one  cause  left  for  living — 
To  pray,  and  pray  for  him :  why  all  these  months — 
I  prayed, — and  here  's  my  answer  :  Dead  of  a  fever  ! 
Why  thus  ?  so  soon  !     Only  six  years  for  love  ! 
While  any  fonrial,  heartless  matrimony, 
Patched  up  by  Court  intrigues,  and  threats  of  cloisters, 
Drags  on  for  six  times  six,  and  peasant  slaves  * 

Grow  old  on  the  same  straw,  and  hand  in  hand 
Slip  from  life's  oozy  bank,  to  float  at  ease. 

\A  knocking  at  the  door. 


132  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  IIL 

That 's  some  petitioner. 
Go  to — I  will  not  hear  them  :  why  should  I  work, 
When  he  is  dead  ?     Alas !  was  that  my  sin  ? 
Was  he,  not  Christ,  my  lode-star  ?     Why  not  warn  me  ? 
Too  late  !    "What 's  this  foul  dream  ?    Dead  at  Otranto — 
Parched  by  Italian  suns — no  woman  by  liim — 
He  was  too  chaste  !     Nought  but  rude  men  to  nurse ! — 
If  I  had  been  there,  I  should  have  watched  by  him — 
Guessed  every  fancy — God !  I  might  have  saved  him  ! 

[A  servant-man  bursts  in. 
Servant.  Madam,  the  Landgrave  gave  me  strict  com- 
mands— 
Isen.  The  Landgrave,  dolt  ? 

JSliz.  I  might  have  saved  him  ! 

Servant,  [to  Isen."]  Ay,  saucy  madam ! — 

The  Landgrave  Henry,  lord  and  master, 
Freer  than  the  last,  and  yet  no  waster. 
Who  will  not  stint  a  poor  knave's  beer. 
Or  spin  out  Lent  through  half  the  year. 
Why — I  see  double  ! 

^liz.  Who  spoke  there  of  the  Landgrave  ?     What 's 
this  drunkard? 
Give  him  his  answer — 'Tis  no  time  for  mumming — 

Serv.  The  Landgrave  Henry  bade  me  see  you  out 
Safe  through  his  gates,  and  that  at  once,  my  Lady. 
Come! 

Miz.  Why — that 's  hasty — I  must  take  my  children^ 
Ah !  I  forgot — they  would  not  let  me  see  them. 
I  must  pack  up  my  jewels — 


SCENE  II.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  133 

Serv.  You  '11  not  need  it — 

1 1  is  Lordship  has  the  keys. 

Eliz.  He  has  indeed. 

Why,  man  ! — ^I  am  thy  children's  godmother — 
I  nursed  thy  wife  myself  in  the  black  sickness — 
Art  thou  a  bu'd,  that  when  the  old  tree  falls, 
FHts  off,  and  sings  in  the  sapling  ? 

\The  man  seizes  her  arm. 

Keep  thine  hands  off — 
I'll  not  be  shamed — Lead  on.     Farewell,  my  Ladies. 
Follow  not !     There 's  want  to  spare  on  earth  already ; 
And  mine  own  woe  is  weight  enough  for  me. 
Go  back,  and  say,  Elizabeth  has  yet 
Eternal  homes,  built  deep  in  poor  men's  hearts ; 
And,  in  the  alleys  underneath  the  wall. 
Has  bought  with  sinful  mammon  heavenly  treasure, 
More  sure  than  adamant,  purer  than  white  whales'  bone, 
Which  now  she  claims.     Lead  on :  a  people's  love  shall 
right  me.  [Exit  with  servant. 

Guta.  Where  now,  dame  ? 

Isen.  Where,  but  after  her  ? 

Guta.  True  heart ! 
I'll  follow  to  the  death.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  II. 

A  Street.    Elizabeth  and  Guta  at  the  door  of  a  Convent. 
Monks  in  the  Porch. 

Eliz.  You  are  afraid  to  shelter  me — afraid. 
And  so  you  thrust  me  forth,  to  starve  and  freeze. 


134:  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  III. 

Soon  said.     Why  palter  o'er  these  mean  excuses, 
Which  tempt  me  to  despise  you  ? 

Monks.  Ah !  my  lady, 

We  know  your  kindness — but  we  poor  religious — 
Are  bound  to  obey  God's  ordinance,  and  submit 
Unto  the  powers  that  be,  who  have  forbidden 
All  men,  alas !  to  give  you  food  or  shelter. 

Eliz.   Silence!     I'll  go.     Better  in  God's  hand  than 
man's. 
He  shall  kill  us,  if  we  die.     This  bitter  blast 
Warping  the  leafless  willows,  yon  white  snow-storms, 
Whose  wings,  like  vengeful  angels,  cope  the  vault. 
They  are  God's, — We  '11  trust  to  them.  [Monks  go  in. 

Guta.  Mean-spirited ! 

Fair  frocks  hide  foul  hearts.     Why  their  altar  now 
Is  blazing  with  your  gifts. 

Eliz.  How  long  their  altar  ? 

To  God  I  gave — and  God  shall  pay  me  back. 
Fool !  to  have  put  my  trust  in  living  man. 
And  fancied  that  I  bought  God's  love,  by  buying 
The  greedy  thanks  of  these  His  earthly  tools  ! 
Well — here 's  one  lesson  learnt !     I  thank  thee.  Lord ! 
Henceforth  I'll  straight  to  Thee,  and  to  Thy  poor. 
What  ?     Isentrudis  not  returned  ?     Alas  ! 
Where  are  those  children  ? 

They  will  not  hav^  the  heart  to  keep  them  from  me — • 
Oh  !  have  the  traitors  harmed  them  ? 

Guta.  Do  not  think  it. 

The  dowager  has  a  woman's  heart. 


SCENE  II.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  135 

Eliz.  Ay,  ay— 

But  she  's  a  mother — and  mothers  will  dare  all  things — 
Oh !  Love  can  make  us  fiends,  as  well  as  angels. 
My  babies  !     Weeping  ?     Oh  have  mercy.  Lord  ! 
On  me  heap  all  thy  wrath — I  understand  it : 
What  can  blind  senseless  terror  do  for  them? 

Guta.    Plead,   plead   your   penances  !      Great    God, 
consider 
All  she  has  done  and  suffered,  and  forbear 
To  smite  her  like  a  worldling  ? 

Eliz.  Silence,  girl ! 

I'd  plead  my  deeds,  if  mine  own  character, 
My  strength  of  wiU  had  fathered  them  :  but  no — 
They  are  His,  who  worked  them  in  me,  in  despite 
Of  mine  own  selfish  and  luxurious  will — 
Shall  I  bribe  Him  with  His  own  ?     For  pain,  I  tell  thee 
I  need  more  pain  than  mine  own  will  inflicts. 
Pain  which   shall  break   that   wiU. — Yet  spare    them, 

Lord ! 
Go  to — I  am  a  fool  to  wish  them  life — 
And  greater  fool  to  miscall  life,  this  headache — 
This  nightmare  of  our  gross  and  crude  digestion — 
This  fog  which  steams  up  from  our  freezing  clay — 
While    waking    heaven 's    beyond.     No !    slay    them, 

traitors ! 
Cut  through  the  channels  of  those  innocent  breaths 
Whose  music  charmed  my  lone  nights,  ere  they  learn 
To  love  the  world,  and  hate  the  wretch  who  bore  them ! 

[  Weeps: 


136  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  hi. 

Guta.  This  storm  will  blind  us  both :  come  here,  and 
shield  you 
Behind  this  buttress. 

JEliz.  What 's  a  wind  to  me  ? 

I  can  see  up  the  street  here,  if  they  come — 
They  do  not  come ! — Oh !  my  poor  weanling  lambs — 
Struck  dead  by  carrion  ravens  ! 
What  then,  I  have  borne  worse.     But  yesterday 
I  thought  I  had  a  husband — and  now — now  ! 
Guta !     He  called  a  holy  man  before  he  died  ? 

Guta.     The  Bishop  of  Jerusalem,  'tis  said. 
With  holy  oil,  and  with  the  blessed  body 
Of  Him  for  whom  he  died,  did  speed  him  duly 
Upon  his  heavenward  flight. 

Eliz.  Oh  happy  bishop  ! 

Where  are  those  children  ?     If  I  had  but  seen  him  : 
I  could  have  borne  all  then.     One  word — one  kiss  ! 
•Hark  !      What's  that  rushing  !      White  doves — one — 

two — three — 
Fleeing  before  the  gale. — My  children's  spirits  ! 
Stay,  babies — stay  for  me  !     What !     Not  a  moment  ? 
And  I  so  nearly  ready  to  be  gone  ? 

Guta.     Still  on  your  children  ? 

Eliz.  Oh  !  this  grief  is  light 

And  floats  a-top — well,  well ;  it  hides  awhile 
That  gulf  too  black  for  speech — My  husband 's  dead ! 
I  dare  not  think  on 't. 

A  small  bird  dead  in  the  snow !     Alas !  poor  minstrel ! 
A  week  ago,  before  this  very  window, 


SCENE  11.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  137 

He  warbled,  may  be,  to  the  slanting  sunlight ; 
And  housewives  blest  him  for  a  merry  singer : 
And  now  he  freezes  at  theii^  doors,  like  me. 
Poor  foolish  brother !  didst  thou  look  for  payment  ? 

Guta.  But  thou  hast  light  in  darkness — He  has  none — 
The  bii-d  's  the  sport  of  time,  while  our  life's  floor 
Is  laid  upon  eternity ;  no  crack  in  it 
But  shows  the  underlying  heaven. 

Eliz.  Art  sure  ? 

Does  this  look  like  it,  girl !     No — I'll  trust  yet — 
Some  have  gone  mad  for  less  ;  but  why  should  I^ 
Who  live  in  time,  and  not  eternity. 
'Twill  end,  girl,  end ;  no  cloud  across  the  si 
But  passes  at  the  last,  and  gives  us  back 
The  face  of  God  once  more. 

Guta.  See  here  tli«y 

Dame  Isentrudis  and  your  children,  all 
Safe  down  the  cHff  path,  through  the  whirling   snow- 
drifts. 

Eliz.  Oh  Lord,  my  Lord  !    I  thank  Thee  ! 
Loving,  and  merciful,  and  tender-heai'ted. 
And  even  in  fiercest  wrath  remembering  mercy. 
Lo  !  here 's  my  ancient  foe.     What  want  you.  Sir  ? 

[Hugo  enters. 

Hugo.  Want  ?     Faith,  'tis  you  who  want,  not  I,  my 
Lady — 
I  hear,  you  are  gone  a  begging  through  the  town  ; 
So  for  your  husband's  sake,  I'll  take  you  in  ; 
For  though  I  can't  forget  your  scurvy  usage, 


138  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  III. 

He  was  a  very  honest  sort  of  fellow, 

Though  mad  as  a  March  hare ;  so  come  you  in. 

Eliz.  But  know  you,  sir,  *hat  all  my  husband's  vassals 
Are  bidden  bar  their  doors  to  me  ? 

Hugo.  I  know  it : 

And  therefore  come  you  in :  my  house  is  mine  : 
No  upstarts  shall  lay  down  the  laAV  to  me ; 
Not  they,  mass :  but  mind  you,  no  canting  here — 
No  psalm-singing ;  all  candles  out  at  eight : 
Beggars  must  not  be  choosers.     Come  along  ! 

Eliz.  I  thank  you.  Sir ;  and  for  my  children's  sake 
I  do  accept  your  bounty.  \_Aside.'\    Down,  proud  heart — 
Bend  lower — Slower  ever :  thus  God  deals  with  thee. 
Go,  Guta,  send  the  children  after  me.         [Exeunt  severally. 
[  Two  Peasants  enter.] 

1st  Peas.  Here's  Father  January  taken  a  lease  of 
March  month,  and  put  in  Jack  Frost  for  bailiff.  What 
be  I  to  do  for  spring-feed  if  the  weather  holds, — and  my 
ryelands  as  bare  as  the  back  of  my  hand  ? 

2c?  Peas.  That 's  your  luck.  Freeze  on,  say  I,  and  may 
Mary  Mother  send  us  snow  a  yard  deep.  I  have  ten  ton 
of  hay  yet  to  sell — ten  ton,  man — there 's  my  luck :  every 
man  for  himself,  and — Why,  here  comes  that  handsome 
canting  girl,  used  to  be  about  the  Princess. 
[  Guta  enters.] 

Guta.  Well  met,  fair  sirs  !    I  know  you  kind  and  loyal, 
And  bound  by  many  a  favor  to  my  mistress  : 
Say,  will  you  bear  this  letter  for  her  sake 


SCENE  II.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  139 

Unto  her  aunt,  the  rich  and  holy  lady 
Who  rules  the  nuns  of  Kitzingen. 

2c?  Feas.  If  I  do,  pickle  me  in  a  barrel  among  cabbage. 
She  told  me  once,  God's  curse  would  overtake  me, 
For  grinding  of  the  poor :  her  turn 's  come  now. 

Guta,  Will  you,  then,  help  her  ?     She  will  pay  you 
richly. 

1st  Peas.  Ay?    How  dame?    How?    Where  will  the 
money  come  from  ? 

Guta.  God  knows — 

Isi  Peas.  And  you  do  not. 

Guta.  Why,  but  last  winter, 

When  all  your  stacks  were  fired,  she  lent  you  gold. 

1st  Peas.    Well — I'll  be  generous:    as  the  times  are 
hard. 
Say,  if  I  take  your  letter,  will  you  promise 
To  marry  me  yourself? 

Guta.  Ay,  marry  you. 

Or  any  thing,  if  you  '11  but  go  to-day : 
At  once,  mind.  [Giving  him  the  Letter. 

1st  Peas.  Ay,  I'll  go.     Now,  you'll  remember  ? 

Guta.  Straight  to  her  ladyship  at  Kitzengen. 
God  and  his  saints  deal  with  you,  as  you  deal 
With  us  this  day.  [Exit, 

2d  Peas.  What !  art  thou  fallen  in  love  promiscuously  ? 

1st  Peas.  Why,  see,  now,  man ;  she  has  her  mistress* 
ear; 
And  if  I  marry  her,  no  doubt  they  '11  make  me 
Bailiff,  or  land-steward  ;  and  there 's  noble  pickings 
In  that  same  line. 


140  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  III. 

2c?  Peas.  Thou  hast  bought  a  pig  in  a  poke : 

Her  priest  will  shrive  her  off  from  such  a  bargain. 

1st  Peas.    Dost  think?     Well— I'll  not  fret  myself 
about  it. 
See,  now,  before  I  start,  I  must  get  home 
Those  pigs  from  off  the  forest ;  chop  some  furze ; 
And  then  to  get  my  supper,  and  my  horse's : 
And  then  a  man  will  need  to  sit  awhile. 
And  take  his  snack  of  brandy  for  digestion  ; 
And  then  to  fettle  up  my  sword  and  buckler ; 
And  then,  bid  'em  all  good  bye  :  and  by  that  time 
'Twill  be  most  nightfall — I'll  just  go  to-morrow. 
Off — here  she  comes  again.  [Exeunt. 

[IsENTRUDis  and  GuTA  enter,  with  the  Children.] 

Guta.  I  warned  you  of  it ;  I  knew  she  would  not  stay 
An  hour,  thus  treated  like  a  slave — an  idiot. 

Isen.  Well,  'twas  past  bearing  :  so  we  are  thrust  forth 
To  starve  again  :   Are  all  your  jewels  gone  ? 

Guta.    All  pawned  and  eaten — and  for  her,  you  know, 
She  never  bore  the  worth  of  one  day's  meal 
About  her  dress,     We  can  but  die — No  foe 
Can  ban  us  from  that  rest. 

Isen.  Ay,  but  these  children  ! — WeU — if  it  must  be, 
Here,  Guta,  pull  off  this  old  withered  hand 
My  wedding-ring  ;  the  man  who  gave  it  me 
Should  be  in  heaven — and  there  he  '11  know  my  heart. 
Take  it,  girl,  take  it.     Where 's  the  princess  now  ? 
She  stopped  before  a  crucifix  to  pray ; 
But  why  so  long  ? 


SCENE  II.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  141 

Guta.  Oh !  prayer,  to  her  rapt  soul, 

Is  hke  the  drunkenness  of  the  autumn  bee, 
Who  scent-enchanted,  on  the  latest  flower, 
Heedless  of  cold,  will  linger  listless  on. 
And  freeze  in  odorous  dreams. 

Isen.  Ah  !  here  she  comes. 

Gvia,     Dripping  from   head   to   foot   with   wet   and 
mire ! 
How 's  this  ? 

[Elizabeth  enteTxng\ 

Eliz.  How  ?     Oh,  my  fortune  rises  to  full  flood : 

I  met  a  friend  just  now,  who  told  me  truths 
WTiolesome  and  stem,  of  my  deceitful  heart — 
Would  God  I  had  known  them  earlier  ! — and  enforced 
Her  lesson  so,  as  I  shall  ne'er  forget  it 
In  body  or  in  mind. 

Isen.  What  means  all  this  ? 

Eliz.     You  know  the  stepping-stones  across  the  ford  : 
There  as  I  passed,  a  certain  aged  crone. 
Whom  I  had  fed,  and  nursed,  year  after  year, 
Met  me  mid-stream — thrust  past  me  stoutly  on —  ' 
And  rolled  me  headlong  in  the  freezing  mire. 
There  as  I  lay  and  weltered — "  Take  that,  madam, 
For  all  your  selfish  hypocritic  pride 
Which  thought  it  such  a  vast  humility 
To  wash  us  poor  folks'  feet,  and  use  our  bodies 
For  staves  to  build  withal  your  Jacob's-ladder. 
What !  you  would  mount  to  heaven  upon  our  backs  ? 
The  ass  has  thrown  his  rider  ?  "     She  crept  on — 


142  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  III. 

I  washed  my  garments  in  the  brook  hard  by — 
And  came  here,  all  the  wiser. 

Guta.  Miscreant  hag ! 

Isen.  Alas,  you  '11  freeze. 

Guta.  Who  could  have  di-eamt  the  witch 

Could  harbor  such  a  spite  ? 

Eliz.  '  Nay,  who  could  dream 

She  would  have  guessed  my  heart  so  well  ?    Dull  boors 
See  deeper  than  we  think,  and  hide  within 
Those  leathern  hulls  unfathomable  truths, 
Which  we  amid  thought's  glittering  mazes  lose. 
They  grind  among  the  iron  facts  of  life, 
And  have  no  time  for  self-deception. 

Isen.  Come — 

Put  on  my  cloak — stand  here,  behind  the  wall. 
Oh !  is  it  come  to  this  ?     She  '11  die  of  cold. 

Guta.  Ungrateful  fiend ! 

Eliz.  Let  be — we  must  not  think  on  't. 

The  scoff  was  true — I  thank  her — I  thank  God — 
This  too  I  needed.     I  had  built  myself 
A  BaBel-tower,  whose  top  should  reach  to  heaven. 
Of  poor  men's  praise  and  prayers,  and  subtle  pride 
At  mine  own  alms.     'Tis  crumbled  into  dust ! 
Oh  !  I  have  leant  upon  an  arm  of  flesh — 
And  here 's  its  strength  !     I'll  walk  by  faith — by  faith ! 
And  rest  my  weary  heart  on  Christ  alone — 
On  Him,  the  all-sufficient ! 
Shame  on  me  !  dreaming  thus  about  myself, 
While  you  stand  shivering  here.  [  To  her  little  Son, 


SCENE  II.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  143 

Art  cold,  young  knight  ? 
Knights  must  not  cry — Go  slide,  and  warm  thyself. 
Where  shall  we  lodge  to-night  ? 

Isen.  There 's  no  place  open, 

But  that^foul  tavern,  where  we  lay  last  night. 

ElizqibetJCs  Son,  [clinging  to  her."]  Oh,  mother,  mother ! 
go  not  to  that  house — 
Among  those  fierce  lank  men,  who  laughed,  and  scowled, 
And  showed  their  knives,  and  sang  strange  ugly  songs 
Of  you  and  us.     Oh,  mother !  let  us  be  ! 

Eliz.  Hark !    look  !      His   father's   voice ! — his   very 
eye — 
Opening  so  slow  and  sad,  then  sinking  down 
In  luscious  rest  again ! 

Isen.  Bethink  you,  child — 

JEliz.  Oh  yes — I'll  think — we  '11  to  our  tavern  friends ; 
If  they  be  brutes,  'twas  my  sin  left  them  so. 

Guta.  'Tis  but  for  a  night  or  two:    three  days  will 
bring 
The  Abbess  hither. 

Isen.  And  then  to  Bambero;  strai^t 

For  knights  and  men  at  arms  !     Your  uncle's  wrath — 

Guta.  [Aside.^  Hush,  hush !    you  '11  fret  her,  if  you 
talk  of  vengeance. 

Isen.  Come  to  our  shelter. 

Children.  Oh  stay  here,  stay  here  ! 

Behind  these  walls. 

Miz.  Ay — stay  awhile  in  peace.    The  storms  are  still. 
Beneath  her  eider  robe  the  patient  earth 


144  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act in. 

Watches  in  silence  for  the  sun  :  we  '11  sit 

And  gaze  up  with  her  at  the  changeless  heaven, 

Until  this  tyranny  be  overpast. 

Come    [^Asicle.]     Lost!  .Lost!     Lost! 

[They  enter  a  neighbouring  Ruin.'] 

Scene  III. 

A  Chamber  in  the  Bishop's  Palace  at  Bamberg. 
Elizabeth  and  Guta. 

Cruta.  You  have  determined  ? 

Eliz.  Yes — to  go  with  him. 

I  have  kept  my  oath  too  long  to  break  it  now. 
I  will  to  Marpurg,  and  there  waste  away 
In  meditation  and  in  pious  deeds, 
Till  God  shall  set  me  free. 

Guta.  How  if  your  uncle 

Will  have  you  marry  ?     Day  and  night,  they  say. 
He  talks  of  nothing  else. 

Eliz.  Never,  girl,  never  ! 

Save  me  from  that  at  least,  oh,  God  ! 

Guta.  He  spoke 

Of  giving  us,  your  maidens,  to  his  knights 
In  carnal  wedlock  :  but  I  fear  him  not : 
For  God's  own  word  is  pledged  to  keep  me  pure — 
I  am  a  maid. 

Eliz.  And  I,  alas  !  am  none  ! 

Oh,  Guta  !  dost  thou  mock  my  widowed  love  ? 
I  was  a  wife — 'tis  true  :  I  was  not  worthy — 
But  there  was  meaning  in  that  first  wild  fancy  ; 


8CEXEni.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  145 

'T was  but  the  innocent  springing  of  the  sap — 

The  witless  yearning  of  an  homeless  heart — 

Do  I  not  know  that  God  has  pardoned  me  ? 

But  now — to  rouse  and  turn  of  mine  own  will, 

In  cool  and  full  foreknowledge,  this  worn  soul 

Again  to  that,  which,  when  God  thrust  it  on  me. 

Bred  but  one  shame  of  ever-gnawing  doubt, 

Were — No,  my  burning  cheeks  !     We  '11  say  no  more. 

Ah !  loved  and  lost !     Though  God's  chaste  grace  should 

fail  me, 
My  weak  idolatry  of  thee  would  give 
Strength   that   should  keep  me   true:    with  mine   own 

hands 
I'd  mar  this  tear-worn  face,  till  petulant  man 
Should  loathe  its  scarred  and  shapeless  ugliness. 

Guta.  But  your  poor   children?     What  becomes  of 

them? 
Eliz.  Oh  !  she  who  was  not  worthy  of  a  husband 
Does  not  deserve  his  children.    What  are  they,  darlings, 
But  snares  to  keep  me  from  my  heavenly  spouse 
By  picturing  the  spouse  I  must  forget  ? 
Well — 'tis  blank  horror.     Yet  if  grief's  good  for  me, 
Let  me  go  down  into  griefs  blackest  pit, 
And  follow  out  God's  cure  by  mine  own  deed. 
Guta.  What  will  your  kinsfolk  think  ? 
Eliz.  What  will  they  think  ? 

What  pleases  them.     That  argument 's  a  staff 
Which  breaks  whene'er  you  lean  on 't.     Trust  me,  girl, 
That  fear  of  man  sucks  out  love's  soaring  ether, 
10 


146  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  hi. 

Baffles  faith's  heavenward  eyes,  and  drops  us  down, 

To  float,  like  plumeless  bii-ds,  on  any  stream. 

Have  I  not  proved  it  ? 

There  was  a  time  with  me,  when  every  eye 

Did  scorch  like  flame  :  if  one  looked  cold  on  me, 

I  strait  accused  myself  of  mortal  sins  : 

Each  fopling  was  my  master :  I  have  lied 

From  very  fear  of  mine  own  serving-maids. 

That 's  past,  thank  God's  good  grace  ! 

Guta.  And  now  you  leap 

To  the  other  end  of  the  line. 

Eliz.  In  self-defence — 

I  am  too  weak  to  live  by  half  my  conscience  ; 
I  have  no  wit  to  way  and  choose  the  mean ; 
Life  is  too  short  for  logic ;  what  I  do 
I  must  do  simply  ;  God  alone  must  judge — 
For  God  alone  shall  guide,  and  God's  elect — 
I  shrink  from  earth's  chill  frosts  too  much  to  crawl — 
I  have  snapped  opinion's  chains,  and  now  I'll  soar 
Up  to  the  blazing  sunlight,  and  be  free. 

The  Bishop  of  Bamberg  enters.     Co2sRAt>  following. 

Bishop.  The  Devil  plagued  St.  Antony  in  the  likeness 
of  a  lean  friar  !  Between  mad  monks  and  mad  women, 
bedlam's  broke  loose,  I  think. 

Con.  Wlien  the  spirit  first  descended  on  the  elect, 
seculars  then,  too,  said  mocking,  "  These  men  are  full  of 
new  wine." 

Bishop.  Seculars,  truly !    If  I  had  not  in  my  secularity 


SCENE  III.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  147 

picked  up  a  spice  of  chivalry  to  the  ladies,  I  should  long 
ago  have  turned  out  you  and  your  regulars,  to  cant  else- 
where.    Plague  on  this  gout — I  must  sit. 

Eliz.  Let  me  settle  your  cushion,  uncle. 

Bishop.  So !  girl !  I  sent  for  you  from  Botenstain. 
I  had  a  mind,  now,  to  have  kept  you  there  until  your 
wits  returned,  and  you  would  say  Yes  to  some  young 
noble  suitor.  As  if  I  had  not  had  trouble  enough  about 
your  dower  ! — If  I  had  had  to  fight  for  it,  I  should  not 
have  minded : — but  these  palavers  and  conferences  have 
fretted  me  into  the  gout :  and  now  you  would  throw  all 
away  again,  tired  with  your  toy,  I  suppose.  What  shall 
I  say  to  the  Counts,  Varila,  and  the  Cupbearer,  and  all 
the  noble  knights  who  will  hazard»their  lands  and  lives, 
in  trying  to  right  yoi5  with  that  traitor  ?  I  am  ashamed 
to  look  them  in  the  face !  To  give  all  up  to  the  villain  ! 
To  pay  him  for  his  treason  ! 

Eliz.  Uncle,  I  give  but  what  to  me  is  worthless.  He 
loves  these  baubles — let  him  keep  them  then  :  I  have  my 
dower. 

Bishop.  To  squander  on  nuns  and  beggars,  at  this 
rogue's  bidding  ?  Why  not  marry  some  honest  man  ? 
You  may  have  your  choice  of  kings  and  princes ;  and  if 
you  have  been  happy  with  one  gentleman.  Mass  !  say  I, 
why  can't  you  be  happy  with  another  ?  What  saith  the 
Scripture  ?  "I  will  that  the  younger  widows  marry, 
bear  children," — not  run  after  monks,  and  what  not — 
What  's  good  for  the  filly,  is  good  for  the  mare, 
say  I. 


148  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  hi. 

Eliz.  Uncle,  I  soar  now  at  a  higher  pitch — 
To  be  henceforth  the  bride  of  Christ  alone. 

Bishop.  Ahem  ! — a  pious  notion — in  moderation.  We 
must  be  moderate,  my  child,  moderate:  I  hate  over- 
doing any  thing — especially  reUgion. 

Con.  Madam,  between  your  uncle  and  myself 
Tliis  question  in  your  absence  were  best  mooted. 

{Exit  Elizabeth. 

Bishop.  How,  priest  ?  do  you  order  her  about  like  a 
servant-maid  ? 

Con.   The    saints   forbid !     Now — ere   I   lose  a  mo- 
ment—  [Kneeling. 
'[Aside.']  All  things  to  all  men  be — and  so  save  some — 
J^Aloud.']  Forgive,  yoi^  grace,  forgive  me, 
If  mine  unmannered  speech  in  aught  have  clashed 
With  your  more  tempered  and  melodious  judgment : 
Your  courage  will  forgive  an  honest  warmth. 
God  knows,  I  serve  no  private  interests. 

Bishop.  Your  orders,  hey  ?  to  wit  ? 

Con.  My  lord,  my  lord. 

There  may  be  higher  aims :  but  what  I  said, 
I  said  but  for  our  Church,  and  our  cloth's  honor. 
Ladies'  religion,  like  their  love,  we  know. 
Requires  a  gloss  of  verbal  exaltation. 
Lest  the  sweet  souls  should  understand  themselves  ;    • 
And  clergymen  must  talk  up  to  the  mark. 

Bishop.  We  all  know.  Gospel  preached  in  the  mother- 
_  tongue 
Sounds  too  like  common  sense. 


SCENE  III.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  149 

Con.  Or  too  unlike  it : 

You  know  the  world,  your  grace ;  you  know  the  sex — 

Bishop.  Ahem  !     As  a  spectator. 

Con.  Philosophice — 

Just  so — You  know  their  rage  for  shaven  crowns — 
How  they  '11  deny  their  God — but  not  their  priest — 
Flirts — scandal-mongers — in  default  of  both  come 
Platonic  love — worship  of  art  and  genius — 
Idols  which  make  them  dream  of  heaven,  as  girls 
Dream  of  their  sweethearts,  when  they  sleep  on  bride-cake. 
It  saves  from  worse — we  are  not  all  Abelards. 

Bishop.  \_Aside.'\  Some  of  us  have  his  tongue,  if  not 
his  face. 

Con.  There  lies  her  fancy  ;  do  but  balk  her  of  it — 
She  '11  bolt  to  cloisters,  like  a  rabbit  scared. 
Head  her  from  that — she  'U  wed  some  pink-faced  boy — 
The  more  low-bred  and  penniless,  the  likelier. 
Send  her  to  Marpurg,  and  her  brain  will  cool. 
Tug  at  the  kite,  'twill  only  soar  the  higher : 
Give  it  but  line,  my  lord,  'twill  drop  like  slate. 
Use  but  that  eagle's  glance,  whose  daring  foresight 
In  chapter,  camp,  and  council  wins  the  wonder 
Of  timid  trucklers — Scan  results  and  outcomes — 
The  scale  is  heavy  in  your  grace's  favour. 

Bishop.  Bah !    priest  !      What    can    this    Marpurg- 
madness  do  for  me  ? 

Con.  Leave  you  the  tutelage  of  all  her  children. 

Bishop.  Thank  you — to  play  the  drynurse  to  three 
starving  brats. 


150  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  III. 

Con.  The  minor's  guardian  guards  the  minors'  lands. 

Bishop.  Unless    thej  ai-e   pitched   away  in   building 
hospitals. 

Con.  Instead  of  fattening  in  your  wisdom's  keeping. 

Bishop.  Well,  well — but  what  gross   scandal  to  the 
family ! 

Con.  The  family,  my  lord,  would  gain  a  saint. 

Bishop.  Ah !  monk,  that  canonization  costs  a  frightful 
sum. 

Con.  Those  fees,  just  now,  would  gladly  be  remitted. 

Bishop.  These  are  the  last  days,  faith,  when  Rome 's 
too  rich  to  take  ! 

Con.  The  Saints  forbid,  my  lord,  the  fisher's  see 
Were  so  o'ercursed  by  Mammon  !     But  you  grieve, 
I  know,  to  see  foul  weeds  of  heresy 
Of  late  o'errun  your  diocese. 

Bishop.  Ay,  curse  them  ! 

I've  hanged  some  dozens. 

Con.  Worthy  of  yourself! 

But  yet  the  faith  needs  here  some  mighty  triumph — 
Some  bright  example,  whose  resplendent  blaze 
May  tempt  that  fluttering  tribe  within  the  pale 
Of  Holy  Church  again — 

Bishop.  To  singe  their  wings  ? 

Con.  They  '11  not  come  near  enough.  Again — there  are 
Wlio  dare  arraign  your  prowess,  and  assert 
A  churchman's  energies  were  better  spent 
In  pulpits,  than  the  tented  field.     Now  mark — 
Mark,  what  a  door  is  opened.     Give  but  scope 


SCENE  III.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  151 

To  this  her  huge  capacity  for  sainthood — 

Set  her,  a  burning  and  a  shining  hght 

To  all  your  people. — Such  a  sacrifice, 

Such  loan  to  God  of  your  own  flesh  and  blood, 

Will  silence  envious  tongues,  and  prove  you  wise 

For  the  next  world  as  for  this  ;  will  clear  your  name 

From  calumnies  which  argue  worldliness  ; 

Buy  of  itself  the  joys  of  paradise ; 

And  clench  your  lordship's  interest  with  the  pontiff. 

Bishop.  "Well,  well,  we  '11  think  on't. 

Con.  Sir,  I  doubt  you  not. 

\_Re-enter  Elizabeth.]  Uncle,  I  am  determined. 

Bishop.  So  am  I. 

You  shall  to  Marpurg  with  this  holy  man. 

Eliz.  Ah,  there  you  speak  again  like  mine  own  uncle. 
I'll  go — to  rest  [aside]  and  die.     I  only  wait 
To  see  the  bones  of  my  beloved  laid 
In  some  fit  resting-place.     A  messenger 
Proclaims  them  near.     Oh  God ! 

Bishop.  We  '11  go,  my  child, 

And  meeting  them  with  all  due  honour,  show 
In  our  own  worship,  honourable  minds. 

{Exit  Elizabeth. 

Bishop.  A  messenger !     How  far  off  are  they,  then  ? 

Serv.  Some  two  days'  journey,  sir. 

Bishop.  Two  days'  journey,  and  nought  prepared  ? 
Here  chaplain — Brother  Hippodamas  !  Chaplain,  I 
say  !  [Hippodamas  enters.']  Call  the  apparitor — ride 
off  with   him,  right  and  left. — Don't  wait  even  to  take 


152  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  m. 

your  hawk — Tell  my  knights  to  be  with  me,  with  all 
their  men-at-arms,  at  noon  on  the  second  day.  Let  all 
be  of  the  best,  say — the  brightest  of  arms  and  the  newest 
of  garments.  Mass  !  we  must  show  our  smartest  before 
these  crusaders — they  '11  be  full  of  new  fashions,  I  war- 
rant 'em — the  monkeys  that  have  seen  the  world.  And 
here,  boy — [  To  a  Page."]  Set  me  a  stoup  of  wine  in  the 
oriel-room,  and  another  for  this  good  monk. 

Con.  Pardon  me,  blessedness — ^but  holy  rule — 
Bishop.  Oh !  I  forgot. — A  pail  of  water  and  a  peck 
of  beans  for  the  holy  man  ! — Order  up  my  equerry,  and 
bid  my  armourer — vestryman,  I   mean — look    out   my 
newest  robes — Plague  on  this  gout ! 

[Exeunt y  following  the  Bishop. 

Scene  IV. 

The  Nave  of  Bamberg  Cathedral.  A  Procession  entering  the 
West  Door,  headed  by  Elizabeth  and  the  Bishop,  Nobles, 
Sfc.  Religious  bearing  the  Coffin  which  incloses  Lewis'8 
Bones. 

1st  Lady.  See  !  the  procession  comes — the  mob  streams 
in 
At  every  door.     Hark  !  how  the  steeples  thunder 
Their  solemn  base  above  the  wailing  choir. 

2c?  Lady.  They  will  stop  at  the  screen. 

Knight.  And  there,  as  I  hear,  open  the  coffin.     Push 
forward,  ladies,  to  that  pillar  :  thence  you  will  see  all. 

\st  Peas.  Oh  dear !  oh  dear  !     If  any  man  had  told 
me  that  I  should  ride  forty  miles  on  this  errand,  to  see 


SCENE  IV.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  153 

him  that  went  out  flesh  come  home  gi-ass,  like  the  flower 
of  the  field ! 

2d  Peas.  We  have  changed  him,  but  not  mended  him, 
say  I,  friend. 

1st  Peas.  Never  we.  He  knew  where  a  yeoman's 
heart  lay !  One  that  would  clap  a  man  on  the  back 
when  his  cow  died,  and  behave  like  a  gentleman  to  him — 
that  never  met  you  after  a  hailstorm  without  lightening 
himself  of  a  few  pocket-burners. 

2d  Peas.  Ay,  that 's  your  poor  man's  plaster :  that 's 
your  right  grease  for  the  world's  creaking  wheels. 

Is^  Peas.  Nay,  that 's  your  rich  man's  plaster  too,  and 
covers  the  multitude  of  sins.  That's  your  big  pike's 
swimming-bladder,  that  keeps  him  atop  and  feeding: 
that 's  his  calling  and  election,  his  oil  of  anointing,  his 
salvum  fac  regem,  his  yeomen  of  the  wardrobe,  who  keeps 
the  velvet-piled  side  of  this  world  uppermost,  lest  his 
delicate  eyes  should  see  the  warp  that  holds  it. 

2c?  Peas.  Who 's  the  warp,  then  ? 

1st  Peas.  We,  man,  the  friezes  and  fustians,  that  rub 
on  till  we  get  frayed  through  with  overwork,  and  then 
aU  's  abroad,  and  the  nakedness  of  Babylon  is  discovered, 
and  catch  who  catch  can. 

Old  Woman.  Pity  they  only  brought  his  bones  home  ! 
He  would  have  made  a  lovely  corpse,  surely.  He  was  a 
proper  man ! 

1st  Lady.  Oh  the  mincing  step  he  tiad  with  him  !  and 
the  delicate  hand  on  a  horse,  fingering  the  reins  as  St. 
Cicely  does  the  organ-keys  ! 

2d  Lady.  And  for  hunting,  and  another  Siegfried. 


154  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  hi. 

Knight.  If  he  was  Siegfried  the  gay,  she  was  Chriem- 
hild  the  grim  ;  and  as  likely  to  prove  a  firebrand  as  the 
gii'l  in  the  ballad. 

1  St  Lady.  Gay,  indeed  !  His  smiles  were  like  plum- 
cake,  the  sweeter  the  deeper  iced.  I  never  saw  him 
speak  civil  word  to  woman,  but  to  her. 

2c?  Lady.  Oh,  ye  Saints  !  There  was  honey  spilt  on 
the  ground !  If  I  had  such  a  knight,  I'd  never  freeze 
alone  on  the  chamber-floor,  Hke  some  that  never  knew 
when  they  were  well  oflT.  I'd  never  elbow  him  off  to 
crusades  with  my  pruderies. 

"  Pluck  your  apples  while  they  're  ripe, 
And  pull  your  flowers  in  May,  O  !  " 
Eh!  Mother? 

Old  Woman.    "Till  when  she  grew  wizened,  and  he 
grew  cold. 
The  balance  lay  even  'twixt  young  and  old." 

3Tonh.  Thus  Satan  bears  witness  perforce  against  the 
vanities  of  Venus  !  But  what 's  this  babbling  ?  Carola- 
tiones  in  the  holy  place  ?  Tace,  vetula !  taceas,  taceto 
also,  and  that  forthwith. 

Old  Woman.  Tace  in  your  teeth,  and  taceas  also,  beg- 
ging box !  Who  put  the  halter  round  his  waist  to  keep  it 
off  his  neck,  who  ?  Get  behind  your  screen,  sirrah !  Am 
I  not  a  burgher's  wife  ?  Am  I  not  in  the  nave  ?  Am  I 
not  on  my  own  ground  ?  Have  I  brought  up  eleven 
children,  without  nftrse,  wet  or  dry,  to  be  taced  now-a- 
days  by  friars  in  the  nave  ?  Help  !  good  folks  !  Where 
be  these  rooks  a  going  ? 

Knight.  The  monk  has  vanished. 


SCENE  IV.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  155 

1st  Peas.  It's  ill  letting  out  waters,  he  finds.  Who  is 
that  old  gentleman,  sir,  holds  the  Princess  so  tight  hy  the 
hand  ? 

Knight.  Her  uncle,  knave,  the  Bishop. 

1st  Peas.    Very  right,  he :    for  she 's  a'most  a  bom 
natural,  poor  soul.     It  was  a  temptation  to  deal  with  her. 
'^2d  Peas.  Thou  didst  cheat  her  shockingly,  Frank,  time 
o'  the  famine,  on  those  nine  sacks  of  maslin  meal. 

Knight.  Go  tell  her  of  it,  rascal,  and  she  '11  thank  you 
for  it,  and  give  you  a  shilling  for  helping  her  to  a  "  cross." 

Old  Woman.  Taceing  free  women  in  the  nave  !  This 
comes  of  your  princesses,  that  turn  the  world  upside 
down,  and  demean  themselves  to  hob  and  nob  with  these 
black  baldicoots  ! 

Eliz.    \_In  a  low  voice.']    I  saw  all  Israel  scattered  on 
the  hills 
As  sheep  that  have  no  shepherd !     Oh,  my  people  ! 
Who  crowd  with  greedy  eyes  round  this  my  jewel, 
Poor  ivory,  token  of  his  outward  beauty — 
Oh !  had  ye  known  his  spirit ! — Let  his  wisdom 
Inform  your  light  hearts  with  that  Saviour's  likeness 
For  whom  he  died  !     So  had  ye  kept  him  with  you  ; 
And  from  the  coming  evils  gentle  Heaven 
Had  not  withdrawn  the  righteous  :  'tis  too  late  ! 

1st  Lady.  There  now,  she  smiles ;  do  you  think  she 
ever  loved  him  ? 

Knight.  Never  creature,  but  mealy-mouthed  inquisitors, 
and  shaven  singing  birds.  She  looks  now  as  glad  to  be 
rid  of  him  as  any  colt  broke  loose. 


156  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  III. 


1st  Lady.  What  will  she  do  now,  when  this  farce 


IS 


over  r 

2c?  Lady.  Found  an  abbey,  that's  the  fashion,  and 
elect  herself  abbess — set  up  the  first  week  for  queen-of- 
all-souls — tyrannize  over  hysterical  girls,  who  are  forced 
to  thank  her  for  making  them  miserable,  and  so  die  a 
saint 

Knight.  Will  you  pray  to  her,  my  fair  queen  ? 

26?  Lady.  Not  I,  sir ;  the  old  Saints  send  me  lovers 
enough,  and  to  spare — yourself  for  one. 

1st  Lady.  There  is  the  giant-killer  slain.  But  see — 
they  have  stopped  :  who  is  that  raising  the  coffin  lid  ? 

2c?  Lady.  Her  familiar  spirit,  Conrad  the  heretic- 
catcher. 

Knight.  I  do  defy  him  !  Thou  art  my  only  goddess ; 
My  saint,  my  idol,  my — ahem  ! 

Is^  Lady.  That  well 's  run  dry. 

Look,  how  she  trembles — Now  she  sinks,  all  shivering 
Upon  the  pavement — Why,  you  '11  see  nought  there 
Flirting  behind  the  pillar — Now  she  rises — 
And  choking  down  that  proud  heart,  turns  to  the  altar — 
Her  hand  upon  the  coffin. 

Eliz.  I  thank  thee,  gracious  Lord,  who  hast  fulfilled 
Thine  handmaid's  mighty  longings,  with  the  sight 
Of  my  beloved's  bones,  and  dost  vouchsafe 
This  consolation  to  the  desolate. 
I  grudge  not.  Lord,  the  victim  which  we  gave  Thee, 
Both  he  and  I,  of  his  most  precious  life. 
To  aid  Thine  holy  city :  though  Thou  knowest 


SCENE  IV.J  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  157 

Ilis  sweetest  presence  was  to  this  world's  joy 

As  sunlight  to  the  taper — Oh  !  hadst  Thou  spared — 

Had  Thj  great  mercy  let  us,  hand  in  hand, 

Have  toiled  through  houseless  shame,  on  beggar's  dole, 

I  had  been  blest :  Thou  hast  him.  Lord,  Thou  hast  him — 

Do  with  us  what  Thou  wilt !    If  at  the  price 

Of  this  one  silly  hair,  in  spite  of  Thee, 

I  could  reclothe  these  wan  bones  with  his  manhood. 

And  clasp  to  my  shrunk  heart  my  hero's  self — 

I  would  not  give  it ! 

I  will  weep  no  more — 
Lead  on,  most  holy  ;  on  the  sepulchre 
Which  stands  beside  the  choir,  lay  down  your  burden. 

[  To  the  People. 

Now,  gentle  hosts,  within  the  close  hard  by. 
Will  we  our  court,  as  queen  of  sorrows,  hold — 
The  green  graves  underneath  us,  and  above 
The  all-seeing  vault,  which  is  the  eye  of  God, 
Judge  of  the  widow  and  the  fatherless. 
There  will  I  plead  my  children's  wrongs,  and  there. 
If  as  I  think,  there  boil  within  your  veins 
The  deep  sure  currents  of  your  race's  manhood. 
Ye  '11  nail  the  orphans'  badge  upon  your  shields, 
And  own  their  cause  for  God's.     We  name  our  cham- 
pions— 
Rudolf,  the  Cupbearer,  Leutolf  of  Erlstetten, 
Hartwig  of  Erba,  and  our  loved  Count  Walter, 
Our  nights  and  vassals,  sojourners  among  you. 
Follow  us.  [  Exit  Elizabeth,  ^c.  ;  the  crowd  following. 


158  THE    SAINT*S    TRAGEDY.  [act  iv. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I. 

Niglit.     The  Church  of  a   Convent.    Elizabeth,   Conrad 
Gerard,  Monks,  an  Abbess,  Nuns,  ^c,  in  the  distance. 

Conrad.  What 's  this  new  weakness  ?     At  your  own 
request 

We  come  to  hear  your  self-imposed  vows 

And  now  you  shrink  :  where  are  the  highflown  fancies 
Which  but  last  week,  beside  your  husband's  bier, 
You  vapoured  forth  ?     Will  you  become  a  jest  ? 
You  might  have  counted  this  tower's  cost,  before 
You  blazoned  thus  your  plans  abroad. 

JEliz.  Oh,  spare  me ! 

Con.  Spare  ?     Spare   yourself ;    and   spare  big   easy 
words. 
Which  prove  your  knowledge  greater  than  your  grace. 

Eliz.  Is  there  no  middle  path  ?     No  way  to  keep 
My  love  for  them,  and  God,  at  once  unstained  ? 

Con.  If  this  were  God's  world,  madam,  and  not  the 
devil's, 
It  might  be  done. 

Miz.  God's  world,  man  ?     Wh}'-,  God  made  it — 
The  faith  asserts  it  God's. 

,Gon.  Potentially — 

As  every  christened  rogue  's  a  child  of  God, 


SCENE  I.J  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  159 

Or  those  old  hagj5,  Christ's  brides — Think  of  your  horn- 
book— 
The  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil — a  goodly  leash  ! 
And  yet  God  made  all  three.     I  know  the  fiend. 
And  you  should  know  the  world — be  sure,  be  sure, 
The  flesh  is  not  a  stork  among  the  cranes. 
Our  nature,  even  in  Eden  gross  and  vile. 
And  by  miraculous  grace  alone  upheld, 
Is  now  itself,  and  foul,  and  damned,  must  die 
Ere  we  can  live  ;  let  halting  worldlings,  madam. 
Maunder  against  earth's  ties,  yet  clutch  them  still. 

Eliz.  And  yet  God  gave  them  to  me — 

Con.  In  the  world  ; 

Your  babes  are  yours  according  to  the  flesh  ; 
How  can  you  hate  the  flesh,  and  love  its  fruit  ? 

Eliz.  The  Scripture  bids  me  love  them. 

Con.  Truly  so, 

While  you  are  forced  to  keep  them ;  when  God's  mercy 
Doth  from  the  flesh  and  world  deliverance  offer, 
Letting  you  bestow  them  elsewhere,  then  your  love 
May  cease  with  his  own  usefulness,  and  the  spirit 
Range  in  free  battle  lists  ;  I'll  not  waste  reasons — 
We  '11  leave  you,  madam,  to  the  Spirit's  voice. 

[Conrad  and  Gerard  witkdraio. 

Eliz.  \_Alone.']   Give  up  his  children  ?     Why,  I'd  not 
give  up 
A  lock  of  hair,  a  glove  his  hand  hfid  hallowed : 
And  they  are  his  gift ;  his  pledge  ;  his  flesli  and  blood  ; 
Tossed  off  for  my  ambition  !     Ah !  my  husband  ! 


160  THE    saint's    tragedy.  1  act  IV. 

His  ghost's  sad  eyes  upbraid  me  !    Spare  me,  spare  me  ! 

I'd  love  thee  still,  if  I  dared ;  but  I  fear  God. 

And  shall  I  never  more  see  loving  eyes 

Look  into  mine,  until  my  dying  day  ? 

That 's  this  world's  bondage  :  Clu'ist  would  liave  me  free, 

And  'twere  a  pious  deed  to  cut  myself 

The  last,  last  strand,  and  fly :  but  whither  ?  whither  ? 

"What  if  I  cast  away  the  bird  i'  the  hand 

And  found  none  in  the  bush  ?     'Tis  possible — 

What  right  have  I  to  arrogate  Christ's  bride-bed  ? 

Crushed,  widowed,  sold  to  traitors  ?     I,  o'er  whom 

His  billows  and  His  storms  are  sweeping  ?     God 's  not 

angry : 
No,  not  so  much  as  we  with  buzzing  fly ; 
Or  in  the  moment  of  His  wrath's  awakening 
We  should  be — nothing.    No — there 's  worse  than  that — 
What  if  He  but  sat  still,  and  let  me  be  ? 
And  these  deep  sorrows,  which  my  vain  conceit 
Calls  chastenings — meant  for  me — my  ailments'  cure — 
Were  lessons  for  some  angels  far  away, 
And  I  the  corpus  vile  for  the  experiment  ? 
The  grinding  of  the  sharp  and  pitiless  wheels 
Of  some  high  Providence,  which  had  its  mainspring 
Ages  ago,  and  ages  hence  its  end  ? 
That  were  too  horrible ! — 
To  have  torn  up  all  the  roses  from  my  garden. 
And  planted  thorns  instead ;  to  have  forged  my  griefs, 
And  hugged  the  griefs  I  dared  not  forge  ;  made  earth 
A  hell,  for  hope  of  heaven ;  and  after  all, 


SCENE  I.]  THE    saint's    tragedy.  161 

These  homeless  moors  of  life  toiled  tlirough,  to  wake. 

And  find  blank  nothing !     Is  that  angel- world 

A  gaudy  window,  which  we  paint  ourselves 

To  hide  the  dead  void  night  beyond  ?     The  present  ? 

Why  here 's  the  present — like  this  arched  gloom. 

It  hems  our  blind  souls  in,  and  roofs  them  over 

With  adamantine  vault,  whose  only  voice 

Is  our  own  wild  prayers'  echo  :  and  our  future  ? 

It  rambles  out  in  endless  aisles  of  mist. 

The  further  stiU  the  darker — Oh,  my  Saviour ! 

My  God !  where   art  Thou !     That 's  but  a  tale  about 

Thee, 
That  crucifix  above — it  does  but  show  Thee 
As  Thou  wast  once,  but  not  as  Thou  ai't  now — 
Thy  grief,  but  not  Thy  glory :  where 's  that  gone  ? 
I  see  it  not  without  me,  and  within  me 
Hell  reigns,  not  Thou ! 

[Dashes  herself  dovm  on  the  altar  steps. 

*  «  #  *       ■         *  * 

[Monks  in  the  distance  chanting.] 
"  Kings'    daughters    were    among    thine    honourable 
women  " — 

Miz,  Kings'  daughters  !     I  am  one ! 

****** 

Monks.  "  Hearken,  oh  daughter,  and  consider ;  incline 
thine  ear : 
Forget  also  thine  own  people,  and  thy  father's  house, 
So  shall  the  King  have  pleasure  in  thy  beauty  : 
For  He  is  Thy  Lord  God,  and  worship  thou  Him." 
11 


162  THE  saint's  tragedy.  Tactiv. 

Eliz.  [^Springing  iipJ]  I  will  forget  them ! 
They  stand  between  my  soul  and  its  allegiance. 
Thou  art  my  God  :  what  matter  if  Thou  love  me  ? 
I  am  Thy  bond-slave,  purchased  with  Thy  life-blood  ; 
I  will  remember  nothing,  save  that  debt. 
Do  with  me  what  thou  wilt.     Alas,  my  babies ! 
He  loves  them — they  'U  not  need  me. 

Conrad  advancing. 
Con.  How  now,  madam  ? 

Have  these  your  prayers  unto  a  nobler  will 
Won  back  that  wandering  heart  ? 

Eliz.  God's  will  is  spoken  : 

The  flesh  is  weak  ;  the  spirit  *s  fixed,  and  dares, — 
Stay !  confess,  sir. 

Did  not  yourself  set  on  your  brothers  here 
To  sing  me  to  your  purpose  ? 

Con.  As  I  live 

I  meant  it  not  ;  yet  had  I  bribed  them  to  it, 
Those  words  were  no  less  God's. 

Eliz.  I  know  it,  I  know  it ; 

And  I'll  obey  them  :  come,  the  victim 's  ready. 

[Lays  her  hand  on  the  altar.     Gerard,  Abbess,  and  Monks 
descend  and  advance!] 

All  worldly  goods  and  wealth,  which  once  I  loved 
I  now  do  count  but  dross  :  and  my  beloved, 
The  children  of  my  womb,  I  now  regard 
As  if  they  were  another's,  God  is  witness. 
My  pride  is  to  despise  myself ;  my  joy 


SCENE  I.J  THE  saint's  tragedy.  163 

All  insults,  sneers,  and  slanders  of  mankind ; 
No  creature  now  I  love,  but  God  alone. 
Oh  to  be  clear,  clear,  clear,  of  all  but  Him  ! 
Lo,  here  I  strip  me  of  all  earthly  helps — 

[Tearivg  off" her  clothes. 
Naked  and  barefoot  through  the  world  to  follow 
My  naked  Lord — And  for  my  filthy  pelf — 

Con.  Stop,  madam — 

JEJHz.  Why  so,  sir  ? 

Con.  Upon  thine  oath  ! 

Thy  wealth  is  God's  not  thine — How  darest  renounce 
The  trust  He  lays  on  thee  ?     I  do  command  thee, 
Being,  as  Aaron,  in  God's  stead,  to  keep  it 
Inviolate,  for  the  Church  and  thine  own  needs. 

JEJliz.  Be  it  so — I  have  no  part  nor  lot  in 't — 
There — I  have  spoken. 

Abbess.  Oh,  noble  soul !  which  neither  gold,  nor  love, 
Nor  scorn  can  bend ! 

Gerard.  And  think  what  pure  devotions, 

What  holy  prayers  must  they  have  been,  whose  guerdon 
Is  such  a  flood  of  grace  !     . 

Nuns.  What  love  again. 

What  flame  of  charity,  which  thus  prevails 
In  virtue's  guest ! 

Eliz.  Is  self-contempt  learnt  thus  ? 

I'll  home. 

Abbess.  And  yet  how  blest,  in  these  cool  shades 
To  rest  with  us,  as  in  a  land-locked  pool. 
Touched  last  and  lightest  by  the  ruffling  breeze. 


164  THE    SxVINt's    tragedy.  [act  IV. 

Eliz.  ]So !  no  !  no !  no  !     I  will  not  die  in  the  dark : 
I'll  breathe  the  free  fresh  air  until  the  last, 
Were  it  but  a  month — I  have  such  things  to  do — 
Great  schemes — brave  schemes — and  such  a  little  time  ! 
Though  now  I  am  harnessed  light  as  any  foot-page. 
Come,  come,  my  ladies.  [Exeunt  Elizabeth,  &c. 

Ger.  Alas !  poor  lady ! 

Con.  Why  alas,  my  son  ! 

She  longs  to  die  a  samt,  and  here 's  the  way  to  it. 

Ger.  Yet  why  so  harsh  ?  why  with  remorseless  knife 
Home  to  the  stem  prune  back  each  bough  and  bud  ? 
I  thought,  the  task  of  education  was 
To  strengthen,  not  to  crush ;  to  train  and  feed 
Each  subject  toward  fulfilment  of  its  nature, 
According  to  the  mind  of  God,  revealed 
In  laws,  congenital  with  every  kind 
And  character  of  man. 

Con.  A  heathen  dream  ! 

Young  souls  but  see  the  gay  and  warm  outside, 
And  work  but  in  the  shallow  upper  soil. 
JVIine  deeper,  and  the  sour  and  barren  rock 
"Will  stop  you  soon  enough.     Who  trains  God's  saints. 
He  must  transform,  not  pet — Nature 's  corrupt  through- 
out— 
A  gaudy  snake,  which  must  be  crushed,  not  tamed, 
A  cage  of  unclean  birds,  deceitful  ever  ; 
Bom  in  the  likeness  of  the  fiend,  which  Adam 
Did  at  the  Fall,  the  Scripture  saith,  put  on. 
Canst  thou  draw  our  Leviathan  with  a  hook, 


SCENE  I.]  THE    SAINT's    TRAGEDY.  1G5 

To  make  him  sport  for  thy  maidens  ?     Scripture  saith 
Who  is  the  prince  of  this  world — so  forget  not. 

Ger.  Forgive,  if  my  more  weak  and  carnal  judgment 
Be  startled  by  your  doctrines,  and  doubt  trembling 
The  path  whereon  you  force  yourself  and  her. 

Con.  Startled  !     Belike — belike — let  doctrines  be  ; 
Thou  shalt  be  judged  by  thy  works ;  so  see  to  them. 
And  let  divines  split  hairs  :  dare  all  thou  canst ; 
Be  all  thou  darest ; — that  will  keep  thy  brains  full. 
Have  thy  tools  ready,  God  will  find  thee  work — 
Then  up,  and  play  the  man.     Fix  well  thy  purpose — 
Let  one  idea,  like  an  orbed  sun. 
Rise  radiant  in  thine  heaven ;  and  then  round  it 
All  doctrines,  forms,  and  disciplines  will  range 
As  dim  parhelia,  or  as  needful  clouds, 
Needful,  but  mist-begotten,  to  be  dashed 
Aside,  when  fresh  shall  serve  thy  purpose  better. 

Ger.  How  ?  dashed  aside  ? 

Con.  Yea,  dashed  aside — why  not  r 

The  truths,  my  son,  are  safe  in  God's  abysses — 
While  wie  patch  up  the  doctrines  to  look  like  them. 
The  best  are  tarnished  mirrors — clumsy  bridges. 
Whereon,  as  on  firm  soil,  the  mob  may  walk 
Across  the  gulf  of  doubt,  and  know  no  danger. 
We,  who  see  heaven,  may  see  the  hell  which  girds  it.     * 
Blind  trust  for  them.     When  I  came  here  from  Rome, 
Among  the  Alps,  all  through  one  frost-bound  dawn, 
Waiting  with  sealed  lips  the  noisy  day, 
I  walked  upon  a  marble  mead  of  snow — 


166  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  IV. 

An  angel's  spotless  plume,  laid  there  for  me  : 
Then  from  the  hill-side,  in  the  melting  noon. 
Looked  down  the  gorge,  and  Ip !  no  bridge,  no  snow — 
But  seas  of  writhing  glacier,  gashed  and  scored 
With  splintered  gulfs,  and  fathomless  crevasses, « 
Blue  lips  of  hell,  which  sucked  down  roaring  rivers 
The  fiends  who  fled  the  sun.     The  path  of  Saints 
Is  such ;  so  shall  she  look  from  heaven,  and  see 
The  l-oad  which  led  her  thither.     Now  we  '11  go, 
And  find  some  lonely  cottage  for  her  lodging ; 
Her  shelter  now  is  but  a  crumbling  ruin 
Roofed  in  with  pine  boughs — discipline  more  healthy 
For  soul,  than  body :     She 's  not  ripe  for  death. 

[  Exeunt. 
Scene  II. 

Open  space  in  a  Suburb  of  Mar  pur g.,  near  Elizabeth's  Hut. 
Count  Walter  and  Count  Pama  of  Hungery  en- 
tering. 

C.  Pama.  I  have  prepared  my  nerves  for  a  shock. 

C.  Wal.  You  are  wise,  for  the  world 's  upside  down 
here.  The  last  gateway  brought  us  out  of  Christendom 
into  the  new  Jerusalem,  the  Fifth  Monarchy,  where  the 
Saints  possess  the  earth.  Not  a  beggar  here  but  has 
his  pockets  full  of  fair  ladies'  tokens  :  not  a  barefooted 
friar  but  rules  a  princess. 

C.  Pama.  Creeping,  I  opine,  into  widows'  houses,  and 
for  a  pretence  making  long  prayers. 

C.  Wal.  Don't  quote  Scripture  here,  sir,  especially  in 
that  gross  literal  way !    The  new  lights  here  have  taught 


scKNE  II.]  .  THE  ^aint's  tragedy.  167 

us  that  Scripture's  saying  one  thing,  is  a  certain  proof 
that  it  means  another.     Except,  by  the  bye,  in  one  text. 

G.  Pama.  What 's  that  ? 

G,  Wal.  "  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  you." 

G.  Pama.  Ah !  So  we  are  to  take  nothing  literally, 
and  they  may  take  literally  every  thing  themselves  ? 

G.  Wal.  Humph !  As  for  your  text,  see  if  they  do 
not  saddle  it  on  us  before  the  day  is  out,  as  glibly  as  ever 
you  laid  it  on  them.  Here  comes  the  lady's  tyrant,  of 
whom  I  told  you. 

Conrad  advances  from  the  Hut. 

Gon.  And  what   may    Count   Walter's   valour   want 
here  ?  .      [Count  Walter  turns  his  back. 

G.  Pama.  I  come,  sir  priest,  from  Andreas,  king  re- 
nowned 
Of  Hungary,  ambassador  unworthy 
Unto  the  Landgravine,  his  saintly  daughter ; 
And  fain  would  be  directed  to  her  presence. 

Gon.  That  is  as  I  shall  choose.    But  I'll  not  stop  you. 
I  do  not  build  with  straw.     I'll  trust  my  pupils 
To  worldlings'  honeyed  tongues,  who  make  long  prayers, 
And  enter  widows'  houses  for  pretence. 
There  dwells  the  lady,  who  has  chosen  too  long 
The  better  part,  to  have  it  taken  from  her. 
Besides  that  with  strange  dreams  and  revelations 
She  has  of  late  been  edified. 

G.  Wal.  Bah!    but  they  will   serve  your  turn — and 
hers. 


168  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  IV. 

Con.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

C.  WaH.  When  you  have  cut  her  off  from  child  and 
friend,  and  even  Isentrudis  and  Guta,  as  I  hear,  ai'e 
thrust  out  by  you  to  starve,  and  she  sits  there,  shut  up 
like  a  bear  in  a  hole,  to  feed  on  her  own  substance  ;  if 
she  has  not  some  of  these  visions  to  look  at,  how  is  she, 
or  any  other  of  your  poor  self-gorged  prisoners,  to  help 
fancying  herself  the  only  creature  on  earth  ? 

Con.  How  now  ?  Who  more  than  she,  in  faith  and 
practice,  a  living  member  of  the  Communion  of  Saints  ? 
Did  she  not  lately  publicly  dispense  in  charity  in  a  single 
day  five  hundred  marks  and  more  ?  Is  it  not  my  contin- 
ual labour  to  keep  her  from  utter  penury  through  her 
extravagance  in  almsgiving  ?  For  whom  does  she  take 
thought  but  for  the  poor,  on  whom,  day  and  night,  she 
spends  her  strength  ?  Does  she  not  tend  them  from  the 
cradle,  nurse  them,  kiss  their  sores,  feed  them,  bathe  them, 
with  her  own  hands,  clothe  them,  living  and  dead,  with 
garments,  the  produce  of  her  own  labour  ?  Did  she  not 
of  late  take  into  her  own  house  a  paralytic  boy,  wlfose 
loathsomeness  had  driven  away  every  one  else  ?  And 
now  that  we  have  removed  that  charge,  has  she  not  with 
her  a  leprous  boy,  to  whose  necessities  she  ministers 
hourly,  by  day  and  night?  What  valley  but  blesses  her 
for  some  school,  some  chapel,  some  convent,  built  by  her 
munificence  ?  Are  not  the  hospices,  which  she  has  founded 
in  divers  towns,  the  wonder  of  Germany  ? — wherein  she 
daily  feeds  and  houses  a  multitude  of  the  infirm  poor  of 
Christ  ?    Is  she  not  followed  at  every  step  by  the  bless- 


SCKNEIl.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  1  GO 

ings  of  the  poor  ?  Are  not  her  hourly  intercessions  for 
the  souls  and  bodies  of  all  around  incessant,  world-famous, 
mighty  to  save  ?  While  she  lives  only  for  the  Church 
of  Christ,  will  you  accuse  her  of  selfish  isolation  ? 

C  Wal.  I  tell  you,  monk,  if  she  were  not  healthier  by 
Grod's  making  than  ever  she  will  be  by  yours,  her  charity 
would  be  by  this  time  double-distiUed  selfishness;  the 
mouths  she  fed,  cupboards  to  store  good  works  in ;  the 
backs  she  warmed,  clothes'-horses  to  hang  out  her  wares 
before  God  ;  her  alms  not  given,  but  fairly  paid,  a  half- 
penny for  every  halfpenny-worth  of  eternal  life ;  earth  her 
chess-board,  and  the  men  and  women  on  it,  merely  pawns 
for  her  to  play  a  winning  game — ^puppets  and  horn-books 
to  teach  her  unit  holiness — a  private  workshop  in  which 
to  work  out  her  own  salvation.     Out  upon  such  charity ! 

Con.  God  hath  appointed  that  our  virtuous  deeds — 
Each  merit  their  rewards. 

O,  Wal.  Go  to — go  to.  I  have  watched  you  and  your 
crew,  how  you  preach  up  selfish  ambition  for  divine 
charity,  and  call  prurient  longings  celestial  love,  while 
you  blaspheme  that  very  marriage  from  whose  mysteries 
you  borrow  all  your  cant.  The  day  will  come  when  every 
husband  and  father  wiU  hunt  you  down  like  vermin ;  and 
may  I  live  to  see  it. 

Con.  Out  on  thee,  heretic  ! 

C.  Wal  (Drawing.)  Liar !    At  last ! 

C.  Pama.  In  God's  name,  sir,  what  if  the  Princess 
find  us  ? 

C.  Wal.    Ay — for  her  sake.   But  put  that  name  on  me 


170  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  IV. 

again,  as  you  do  on  every  good  Catholic  who  will  not  be 
your  slave  and  puppet,  and  if  thou  goest  home  with  ears 
and  nose,  there  is  no  hot  blood  in  Germany. 

[  They  move  toviard  the  Cottage. 

Con.    \_Alone.']    Were  I  as  once  I  was,  I  could  re- 
venge : 
But  now  all  private  grudges  wane  like  mist 
In  the  keen  sunlight  of  my  full  intent ; 
And  this  man  counts  but  for  some  sullen  bull 
Who  paws  and  mutters  at  unheeding  pilgrims 
His  em^jty  wrath :  yet  let  him  bar  my  path, 
Or  stay  me  but  one  hour  in  my  life-purpose, 
And  I  will  fell, him  as  a  savage  beast, 
God's  foe,  not  mine.     Beware  thyself.  Sir  Count ! 

[Exit.    The  Counts  return  from  the  Cottage. 

0.  Pama.   Shortly  she  will  return ;  here  to  expect  her 
Is  duty  both,  and  honour.     Pardon  me — 
Her  humours  are  well  known  here  ?     Passers  by 
Will  guess  who  'tis  we  visit  ? 

C.   Wal.  Very  likely. 

G.  Pama.    Well,  travellers  see  strange  tilings — and  do 
them  too. 
Hem !  this  turf-smoke  affects  my  breath :  we  might 
Draw  back  a  space. 

C.  Wal.  Certie,  we  were  in  luck, 

Or  both  our  noses  would  have  been  snapped  off 
By  those  two  she-dragons ;  how  their  sainthoods  squealed 
To  see  a  brace  of  beards  peep  in  !     Poor  child  ! 
Two  sweet  companions  for  her  loneliness ! 


SCENE  II.]  THE    SAINT's    TRAGEDY.  171 

C.  Pama.    But  all !  wliat  lodging !     'Tis  at  that  my 
heai-t  bleeds ! 
That  hut,  whose  rough  and  smoke-embrowned  spars 
Dip  to  the  cold  clay  floor  on  either  side ! 
Her  seats  bare  deal ! — her  only  furniture 
Some  earthern  crock  or  two  !     Why,  sir,  a  dungeon 
Were  scai-ce  more  frightful :  such  a  choice  must  argue 
Aberrant  senses,  or  degenerate  blood  ? 

G.  Wal.    What?     Were  things  foul ? 

C.  Pama.  I  marked  not,  sir. 

C.  Wal.  I  did. 

You  might  have  eat  your  dinner  off  the  floor. 

C.  Pama.    Off  any  spot,  sir,  which  a  princess's  foot 
Had  hallowed  by  its  touch. 

C.  Wal.  Most  courtierly. 

Keep,  keep,  those  sweet  saws  for  the  lady's  self.. 
[^Aside.']  Unless  that  shock  of  the  nerves  shall  send  them 
flying. 

C.  Pama.     Yet  whence  this  depth  of  poverty?     I 
thought 
You  and  her  champions  had  recovered  for  her 
Her  lands  and  titles. 

C,  Wal.  Ay ;  that  coward  Henry 

Gave  them  all  back  as  lightly  as  he  took  them : 
Gertie,  we  were  four  gentle  applicants — 
And  Rudolph  told  him  some  unwelcome  truths — 
Would  God  that  all  of  us  might  hear  our  sins. 
As  Henry  heard  that  day  ! 

G.  Pama.  Then  she  refused  them  ? 


172  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  [ACT  IV. 

G.  Wal    "  It  ill  befits,"  quoth  she,  "  my  royal  blood. 
To  take  extorted  gifts  ;  I  tender  back 
By  you  to  him,  for  this  his  mortal  hfe, 
That  which  he  thinks  by  treason  cheaply  bought ; 
To  which  my  son  shall,  in  his  father's  right, 
By  God's  good  will,  succeed.     For  that  dread  height 
May  Christ  by  many  woes  prepare  his  youth ! " 

G.  Pama.    Humph ! 

G.  Wal.  Why  here — no,  't  cannot  be — 

G.  Pama.  What  hither  comes 

Forth  from  the  hospital,  where,  as  they  told  us, 
The  Princess  labours  in  her  holy  duties  ? 
A  particoloured  ghost  that  stalks  for  penance  ? 
Ah !  a  good  head  of  hair,  if  she  had  kept  it 
A  thought  less  lank  ;  a  handsome  face  too,  trust  me, 
But  worn  to  fiddle  strings  ;  well,  we  '11  be  knightly — 

\^As  Elizabeth  meets  him.^ 
Stop,  my  fair  queen  of  rags  and  patches,  turn 
Those  solemn  eyes  a  moment  from  your  distaff, 
And  say,  what  tidings  your  magnificence 
Can  bring  us  of  the  Princess  ? 

Eliz.  I  am  she. 

[Count  Pama  crosses  Jiimself  and  falls  on  his  knees] 

C.  Pama.  Oh  blessed  saints  and  martyrs !  Open,  earth ! 
And  hide  my  recreant  knighthood  in  thy  gulf ! 
Yet  mercy,  madam !  for  till  this  strange  day 
Who  e'er  saw  spinning  wool,  like  village-maid, 
A  royal  scion  ? 

G.  Wal.  \_Kneeling.']  My  beloved  mistress  ! 


SCENE  n.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  173 

Eliz.    Ah !    faithful  friend  !     Rise,  gentles,  rise,  for 
shame ; 
Nay,  blush  not,  gallant  sir.     You  have  seen,  ere  now, 
Kings'  daughters  do  worse  things  than  spinning  wool, 
Yet  never  reddened.     Speak  your  errand  out. 

C.  Pama.    I  from  your  father,  madam — 

Eliz.  Oh  !  I  divine  ; 

And  grieve  that  you  so  far  have  journeyed,  sir. 
Upon  a  bootless  quest. 

01  Pama.  But  heai*  me,  madam — 

If  you  return  with  me  (o'erwhelming  honour! 
For  such  mean  body-guard  too  precious  treasure) 
Your  father  offers  to  you  half  his  wealth  ; 
And  countless  hosts,  whose  swift  and  loyal  blades 
From  traitorous  grasp  shall  vindicate  your  crown. 

Eliz.  Wealth  ?     I  have  proved  it,  and  have  tossed  it 
from  me : 
I  will  not  stoop  again  to  load  with  clay. 
War  ?     I  have  proved  that  too  :  should  I  turn  loose 
On  these  poor  sheep  the  wolf  whose  fangs  have  gored 

me, 
God's  bolt  would  smite  me  dead. 

C.  Pama.  Madam,  by  his  gray  hairs  he  doth  entreat 
you. 

Eliz.  Alas  !  small  comfort  would  they  find  in  me  ! 
I  am  a  stricken  and  most  luckless  deer. 
Whose  bleeding  track  but  draws  the  hounds  of  wrath 
Where'er  I  pause  a  moment.     He  has  children  ' 
Bred  at  his  side,  to  nurse  him  in  his  age — 


174  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  IV. 

While  I  am  but  an  alien  and  a  changeling, 
"Wliom,  ere  my  plastic  sense  could  impress  take 
Either  of  his  feature  or  his  voice,  he  lost.  , 

C.  Pama.  Is  it  so  ?     Then  pardon,  madam,  but  your 
father 
Must  by' a  father's  right  command — 

Eliz.  Command  !   Ay,  that 's  the  phrase  of  the  world : — 
well — tell  him, 
But  tell  him  gently  too — that  child  and  father 
Are  names,  whose  earthly  sense  I  have  foresworn. 
And  know  no  more  :  I  have  a  heavenly  spouse, 
Whose  service  doth  all  other  claims  annul. 

G.  Wal.  Ah  lady,  dearest  lady,  be  but  ruled  ! 
Your  Saviour  will  be  there  as  near  as  here. 

Eliz.  What  ?    Thou  too,  friend.?    Dost  thou  not  knoAV 
me  better  ? 
Wouldst  have  me  leave  undone  what  I  begin  ? 
[  To  Count  Pama.]  My  father  took  the  cross,  sir :   so 

did  I: 
As  he  would  die  at  his  post,  so  will  I  die  : 
He  is  a  warrior :  ask  him,  should  I  leave 
This  my  safe  fort,  and  well-proved  vantage-ground, 
To  roam  on  this  world's  flat  and  fenceless  steppes  ? 
C.  Pama.  Pardon  me,  madam,  if  my  grosser  wit 
Fail  to  conceive  your  sense. 

Eliz.  It  is  not  needed. 

Be  but  the  mouthpiece  to  my  father,  sir ; 
And  tell  him — for  I  would  not  anger  him — 
Tell  him,  I  am  content — say,  happy — tell  him 


SCENE  HI.]  THE    SA1NT*S    TRAGEDY.  175 

I  prove  my  kin  by  prayers  for  him,  and  masses 
For  her  who  bore  me.     We  shall  meet  on  high. 
And  say,  his  daughter  is  a  mighty  tree, 
From  whose  wide  roots  a  thousand  sapling  suckers 
Drink  half  their  life  ;  she  dare  not  snap  the  threads, 
And  let  her  offshoots  wither.     So  farewell. 
Within  the  convent  there,  as  mine  own  guests, 
You  shall  be  fitly  lodged.     Come  here  no  more. 

G.  Wal.  G.  Pama.  Farewell,  sweet  saint !  [Exexint. 

Eliz.  May  God  go  with  you  both. 

No !  I  will  win  for  him  a  nobler  name. 
Then  captive  crescents,  piles  of  turbaned  heads, 
Or  towns  retaken  from  the  Tartar,  give. 
In  me  he  shall  be  greatest ;  my  report 
Shall  through  the  ages  win  the  quires  of  hearen 
To  love  and  honour  him  ;  and  hinds,  who  bless 
The  poor  man's  patron  saint,  shall  not  forget 
How  she  was  fathered  with  a  worthy  sire.  {Exit. 

Scene  III. 

Niglit.    Interior  of  Elizabeth's  Hut.    A  leprous  Boy  sleep- 
ing on  a  Mattress.    Elizabeth  watching  hy  him. 

Eliz.  My  shrunk  limbs,  stiff  from  many  a  blow. 
Are  crazed  with  pain. 
A  long  dim  formless  fog-bank  creeping  low, 
Dulls  all  my  brain. 

I  remember  two  young  lovers, 
In  a  golden  gleam. 


A76  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  IV. 

Across  the  brooding  darkness  shrieking  hovers 
That  fair,  foul  dream. 


My  little  children  call  to  me, 

"  Mother !  so  soon  forgot  ?  " 
From  out  dark  nooks  their  yearning  faces  startle 
me, 

Go,  babes  !     I  know  you  not ! 

Pray  !  pray  !  or  thou  'It  go  mad. 

***** 

The  past 's  our  own  : 
No  fiend  can  take  that  from  us  !     Ah,  poor  boy ! 
Had  I,  like  thee,  been  bred  from  my  black  birth-hour 
In  filth  and  shame,  counting  the  soulless  months 
Only  by  some  fresh  ulcer  !     I'll  be  patient — 
Here  's  something  yet  more  wretched  than  myself. 
Sleep  thou  on  still,  poor  charge — though  I'll  not  grudge 
One  moment  of  my  sickening  toil  about  thee, 
Best  counsellor — dumb  preacher,  who  dost  warn  me 
How  much  I  have  enjoyed,  how  much  have  left. 
Which  thou  hast  never  known.     How  am  I  wretched  ? 
The  happiness  thou  hast  from  me,  is  mine, 
And  makes  me  happy.     Ay,  there  lies  the  secret — 
Could  we  but  crush  that  ever-craving  lust 
For  bliss,  which  kills  all  bliss,  and  lose  our  life. 
Our  barren  unit  life,  to  find  again 
A  thousand  lives  in  those  for  whom  we  die. 
So  were  we  men  and  women,  and  should  hold 


SCENE  ra.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  177 

Our  rightful  rank  in  God's  great  universe, 
Wherein,  in  heaven  and  earth,  by  will  or  nature, 
Nought  lives  for  self — All,  all — from  crown  to  footstool — 
The  Lamb,  before  the  world's  foundations  slain — 
The  angels,  ministers  to  God's  elect — 
The  sun,  who  only  shines  to  light  a  world — 
The  clouds,  whose  glory  is  to  die  in  showers — 
The  fleeting  streams  who  in  their  ocean-graves 
Flee  the  decay  of  stagnant  self-content — 
The  oak,  ennobled  by  the  shipwright's  axe — 
The  soU,  which  yields  its  marrow  to  the  flower — 
The  flower,  which  feeds  a  thousand  velvet  worms, 
Bom,  only  to  be  prey  for  every  bird — 
All  spend  themselves  for  others  :  and  shall  man. 
Earth's  rosy  blossom — image  of  his  God — 
Whose  twofold  being  is  the  mystic  knot 
Which  couples  earth  and  heaven — doubly  bound 
As  being  both  worm  and  angel,  to  that  service 
By  which  both  worms  and  angels  hold  their  life, 
Shall  he,  whose  every  breath  is  debt  on  debt, 
Refuse,  without  some  hope  of  further  wage 
AVhich  he  calls  Heaven,  to  be  what  God  has  made  him  ? 
No !  let  him  show  himself  the  creature's  lord 
By  freewill  gift  of  that  self-sacrifice 
Which  they  perforce  by  nature's  law  must  suffer. 
This  too  1  had  to  learn,  (I  thank  thee.  Lord  ! ) 
To  lie  crushed  down  in  darkness  and  the  pit — 
To  lose  all  heart  and  hope — and  yet  to  work. 
What  lesson  could  I  draw  from  all  my  own  woes — 
12 


178  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  it. 

Ingratitude,  oppression,  widowhood — 

"While  I  could  hug  myself  in  vain  conceits 

Of  self-contented  sainthood — inward  raptures — 

Celestial  palms — and  let  ambition's  gorge 

Taint  heaven,  as  well  as  earth  ?     Is  selfishness 

For  time,  a  sin — spun  out  to  eternity 

Celestial  prudence  ?     Shame  !     Oh,  thrust  me  forth, 

Forth,  Lord,  from  self,  until  I  toil  and  die 

No  more  for  Heaven  and  bliss,  but  duty.  Lord, 

Duty  to  Thee,  although  my  meed  should  be 

The  hell  which  I  deserve  !  [Sleeps. 


Two  Women  enter. 

1st  Woman,  What?   snoring  still?     'Tis  nearly  time 
to  wake  her 
To  do  her  penance. 

2c?  Woman.  Wait  awhile,  for  love : 

Indeed,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  punish 
A  bag  of  skin  and  bones. 

1st  Woman.  'Tis  for  her  good  : 

She  has  had  her  share  of  pleasure  in  this  life 
With  her  gay  husband  ;  she  must  have  her  pain. 
We  bear  it  as  a  thing  of  course  ;  we  know 
What  mortifications  are,  although  I  say  it 
That  should  not. 

2d  Woman.  Why,  since  my  old  tyrant  died. 
Fasting  I've  sought  the  Lord,  like  any  Anna, 
And  never  tasted  fish,  nor  flesh,  nor  fowl. 


SCENE  III.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  179 

And  little  stronger  than  water. 

1st  Woman.  Plague  on  this  watching  ! 

What  work,  to  make  a  saint  a  fine  lady  ! 
See  now,  if  she  had  been  some  labourer's  daughter, 
She  might  have  saved  herself,  for  aught  he  cared ; 
But  now — 

2d  Woman.  Hush  !  here  the  master  comes : 
I  hear  him. —    • 

Conrad  enters. 

Con.  My  peace,  most  holy,  wise,  and  watchful  war- 
dens ! 
She  sleeps  ?     "Well,  what  complaints  have  you  to  bring 
Since  last  we  met  ?     How  ?  blowing  up  the  fire  ? 
Cold  is  the  true  Saint's  element — he  thrives 
Like  Alpine  gentians,  where  the  frost  is  keenest — 
For  there  Heaven 's  nearest — and  the  ether  purest — 
[^Aside.']  And  he  most  bitter. 

2c?  Woman.  Ah  !  sweet  master. 

We  are  not  yet  as  perfect  as  yourself. 

Con.  But  how  has  she  behaved  ? 

1st  Woman.  Just  like  herself — 

Now  ruffling  up  like  a  tourney  queen ; 
Now  weeping  in  dark  comers ;  then  next  minute 
Begging  for  penance  on  her  knees; 

2c?  Woman.  One  trick 's  cured  ;• 

That  lust  of  giving  ;  Isentrude  and  Guta, 
The  hussies,  came  here  begging  but  yestreen. 
Vowed  they  were  starving. 


180  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [ACTIV. 

Oon.  Did  she  give  to  them  ? 

2c?  Woman.  She  told  them  that  she  dared  not. 

Con.  Good — for  them, 

I  will  take  measures  that  they  shall  not  want ; 
But  see  you  tell  her  not :  she  must  be  perfect. 

l5^  Woman.  Indeed,  there 's  not  much  chance  of  that 
awhile.  • 
There 's  others,  might  be  saints,  if  they  were  young, 
And  handsome,  and  had  titles  to  their  names, 
If  they  were  helped  toward  heaven,  now — 

Con.  Silence,  horse- scull ! 

Thank  God,  that  you  are  allowed  to  use  a  finger 
Towards  building  up  His  chosen  tabernacle. 

2c?  Woman.  I  consider  that  she  blasphemes  the  means 
of  grace. 

Con.  Eh  ?  that 's  a  point,  indeed. 

2c?  Woman.  Why,  yesterday, 

Within  the  church,  before  a  mighty  crowd. 
She  mocked  at  all  the  lovely  ipaages. 
And  said,  "  the  money  had  been  better  spent 
"  On  food  and  clothes,  instead  of  paint  and  gilding  : 
They  were  but  pictures,  whose  reality 
We  ought  to  bear  within  us." 

Con.  Awful  doctrine ! 

\st    Woman.    Look   at  her  carelessness,   again — the 
•    distaff 
Or  woolcomb  in  her  hands,  even  on  her  bed. 
Then,  when  the  work  is  done,  she  lets  those  nuns 
Cheat  her  of  half  the  price. 


SCENE  III.]  THE    saint's    tragedy.  181 

2d  Woman.  The  Aldenburgers. 

Con.  Well,  well,  what  more  misdoings  ? 

\_Aside.']  Pah  !  I  am  sick  on 't, 
[_Aloud.']  Go  sit,  and  pray  by  her  until  she  wakes. 

[The  Women  retire.     Conrad  sits  down  by  thejire.] 
I  am  dwindling  to  a  peddling  chamber-chaplain, 
Who  hunts  for  crabs  and  ballads  in  maids'  sleeves, 
I,  who  have  shuffled  kingdoms.     Oh  !  'tis  easy 
To  beget  great  deeds  ;  but  in  the  rearing  of  them — 
The  threading  in  cool  blood  each  mean  detail. 
And  furzebrake  of  half-pertinent  circumstance — 
There  lies  the  self-denial. 

Women  [//i  a  low  voice."]  Master !  sir !  look  here  ! 

^Hz.  [rising.]  Have  mercy,  mercy.  Lord  ! 

Con.  What  is  it,  my  daughter  ?     No — She  answers 
not — 
Her  eyeballs  through  their  sealed  lids  are  bursting. 
And  yet  she  sleeps  :  her  body  does  but  mimic 
The  absent  soul's  enfrancliised  wanderings 
In  the  spirit-world. 

JEliz.  Oh  !  She  was  but  a  worldling  ! 

And  think,  good  Lord,  if  that  this  world  H  hell. 
What  wonder  if  poor  souls  whose  lot  is  fixed  here, 
Meshed  down  by  custom,  wealth,  rank,  pleasure,  igno- 
rance. 
Do  hellish  things  in  it  ?     Have  mercy,  Lord  ; 
Even  for  my  sake,  and  all  my  woes,  have  mercy ! 

Con.  There  !  she  is  laid  again — Some  bedlam  dream. 
So — here  I  sit ;  am  I  a  guardian  angel 


182  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  IV. 

Watching  by  God's  elect  ?  or  nightly  tiger, 

"Who  waits  upon  a  dainty  point  of  honour  ^ 

To  clutch  his  prey,  till  it  shall  wake  and  move  ? 

TVe  '11  waive  that  question :  there 's  eternity 

To  answer  that  in. 

How  like  a  marble-carven  nun  she  lies 

Who  prays  with  folded  palms  upon  her  tomb, 

Until  the  resurrection  !     Fair  and  holy ! 

Oh,  happy  Lewis  1  had  I  been  a  knight — 

A  man  at  all — What 's  this  ?     I  must  be  brutal. 

Or  I  shall  love  her :  and  yet  that 's  no  safeguard  ; 

I  have  marked  it  ofb :  ay — with  that  devilish  triumph 

Which  eyes  its  victim's  writhings,  still  will  mingle 

A  sympathetic  thrill  of  lust — say,  pity. 

Eliz.  [_Awaking.~\  I  am  heard !     She  is  saved  ! 
Where  am  I  ?     What,  have  I  overslept  myself  ? 
Oh,  do  not  beat  me !     I  will  tell  you  all — 
I  have  had  awful  dreams  of  the  other  world. 

1st  Woman.  Ay  !  ay  !  a  fine  excuse  for  lazy  women, 
Who  cry  nightmare  with  lying  on  their  backs. 

Eliz.  I  will  be  heard  !  I  am  a  prophetess  ! 
God  hears  me^hy  not  ye  ? 

Con.  Quench  not  the  spirit : 

If  He  have  spoken,  daughter,  we  must  Hsten. 

Eliz.  Methought  from  out  the  red  and  heaving  earth 
My  mother  rose,  whose  broad  and  queenly  limbs 
A  fiery  arrow  did  impale,  and  round 
Pursuing  tongues  oozed  up  of  nether  fire. 
And  fastened  on  her :  like  a  winter-blast 


SCENE  III.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  183 

Among  the  steeples,  then  she  shrieked  aloud, 
'  Pray  ibr  me,  daughter,  save  me  from  this  torment. 
For  tJiou  canst  save  ! '     And  then  she  told  a  tale  ; 
It  was  not  true — my  mother  was  not  such — 
Oh  God  !     The  pander  to  a  brother's  sin  ! 

1st  Woman.     There  now  ?     The  truth  is  out !     I  told 
you,  sister, 
About  that  mother — 

Con,  Silence,  hags  !     What  then  ? 

Mtz.  She  stretched  her  arms,  and  sank.     Was  it  a  sin 
To  love  that  sinful  mother  ?     There  I  lay — 
And  in  the  spirit  far  away  I  prayed ; 
What  words  I  spoke,  I  know  not,  nor  how  long ; 
Until  a  stiU  small  voice  sighed,  '  Child,  thou  art  heard : ' 
Then  on  the  pitchy  dark  a  small  bright  cloud 
Shone  out,  and  swelled,  and  neared,  and  grew  to  form, 
Till  from  it  blazed  my  pardoned  mother's  face 
With  nameless  glory  ?     Nearer  still  she  pressed. 
And  bent  her  lips  to  mine — a  mighty  spasm 
Ran  crackling  through  my  limbs,  and  thousand  bells 
Rang  in  my  dizzy  ears — And  so  I  woke. 

Con.  'Twas  but  a  dream. 

Miz.  'Twas  more  !  'twas  more  !  I've  tests : 

From  youth  I  have  lived  in  two  alternate  worlds, 
And  night  is  live  like  day.     This  was  no  goblin  ! 
'Twas  a  true  vision,  and  my  mother's  soul 
Is  freed  by  my  poor  prayers  from  penal  fires. 
And  waits  for  me  in  bliss. 

Con.  Well—be  it  so  then. 


184  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  IV. 

Thou  seest  herein  what  prize  obedience  merits. 
Now  to  press  forwards  :  I  require  your  presence 
Within  the  square,  at  noon,  to  witness  there 
The  fiery  doom — most  just  and  righteous  doom — 
Of  two  convicted  and  malignant  heretics. 
Who  at  the  stake  shall  expiate  their  crime, 
And  pacify  God's  wrath  against  this  land. 

Eliz.   No  !  no  !     I  will  not  go  ! 

Con.  What 's  here  ?    Thou  wilt  not  ? 

I'll  drive  thee  there  with  blows. 

Eliz.  Then  I  will  bear  them, 

Even  as  I  bore  the  last,  with  thankful  thoughts 
Upon  those  stripes  my  Lord  endured  for  me. 
Oh  spare  them,  sir  !  poor  blindfold  sons  of  men  ! 
No  saint  but  daily  errs, — and  must  they  bum, 
Ah  God  !  for  an  opinion  ? 

Con.  Fool !  opinions  ? 

Who  cares  for  their  opinions  ?     'Tis  rebellion 
Against  the  system  which  upholds  the  world 
For  which  they  die :  so,  lest  the  infection  spread. 
We  must  cut  off  the  members,  whose  disease 
We  'd  pardon,  could  they  keep  it  to  themselves. 

[  Elizabeth  weeps. 

Well,  I'll  not  urge  it, — Thou  hast  other  work — 
But  for  thy  petulant  words  do  thou  this  penance  : 
I  do  forbid  thee  here,  to  give  henceforth 
Food,  coin,  or  clothes*,  to  any  living  soul. 
Thy  thriftless  waste  doth  scandalize  the  elect. 
And  maim  thine  usefulness  :  thou  dost  elude 


SCENE  m.]  THE    SAINT's    TRAGEDY.  185 

My  wise  restrictions  still :  'Tis  great,  to  live 
Poor,  among  riches  ;  when  thy  wealth  is  spent, 
Want  is  not  merit,  but  necessity. 

Eliz.  Oh,  let  me  give  ! 

That  only  pleasure  have  I  left  on  earth  ! 

Con.   And  for  that  very  cause  thou  must  forego  it, 
And  so  be  perfect :  *  she  who  lives  in  pleasure 
Is  dead,  while  yet  she  lives ; '  grace  brings  no  merit 
When  'tis  the  express  of  our  own  self-will. 
To  shrink  from  what  we  practise  ;  do  God's  work 
In  spite  of  loathings ;  that 's  the  path  of  saints. 
I  have  said.  {Exit,  with  the  Women. 

Eliz.  Well !  I  am  freezing  fast — I  have  grown  of  late 
Too  weak  to  nurse  my  sick ;  and  now  this  outlet, 
This  one  last  thawing  spring  of  fellow-feeling, 
Is  choked  with  ice — Come,  Lord,  and  set  me  free. 
Think  me  not  hasty !  measure'  not  mine  age. 
Oh  Lord,  by  these  my  four  and  twenty  winters. 
I  have  lived  three  lives — three  lives. 
For  fourteen  years  I  was  an  idiot  girl : 
Then  I  was  bom  again  ;  and  for  five  years, 
I  lived  !  I  lived  !  and  then  I  died  once  more  ; — 
One  day  when  many  knights  came  marching  by. 
And  stole  away — we  '11  talk  no  more  of  that. 
And  so  these  four  years  since,  I  have  been  dead, 
And  all  my  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God. 
Nunc  igitur  dimittas,  Domine,  servam  tuam. 


186  .  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  IV. 

Scene  IV. 

The  Same.    Elizabeth  lying  on  Straw  in  a  corner.    A  crowd 
of  Women  round  her.     Conrad  entering. 

Con.    As  I  expected — 
A  sermon-mongering  herd  about  her  death-bed, 
Stifling  her  with  fusty  sighs,  as  flocks  of  rooks 
Despatch,  with  pious  pecks,  a  wounded  brother. 
Cant,  howl,  and  whimper !    Not  an  old  fool  in  the  town 
Who  thinks  herself  religious,  but  must  see 
The  last  of  the  show,  and  mob  the  deer  to  death. 
[^Adva7icing.']    Hail !  holy  ones  !  How  fares  your  charge 
to-day  ? 

Abbess.   After  the  blessed  sacrament  received, 
As  surfeited  with  those  celestial  viands. 
And  with  the  blood  of  life  intoxicate. 
She  lay  entranced ;  and  only  stirred  at  times 
To  eructate  sweet  edifying  doctrine 
Culled  from  your  darling  sermons. 

Woman.  Heavenly  grace 

Imbues  her  so  throughout,  that  even  when  pricked 
She  feels  no  pain. 

Con.  A  miracle,  no  doubt. 

Heaven's  work  is  ripe,  and  like  some  more  I  know, 
Having  begun  in  the  spirit,  in  the  flesh 
She 's  now  made  perfect :  she-  hath  had  warnings,  too. 
Of  her  decease ;  and  prophesied  to  me, 
Three  weeks  ago,  when  I  lay  hke  to  die. 
That  I  should  see  her  in  her  coflOin  yet. 


SCENE  IV. J  THE    saint's    TRAOEDT.  187 

Abbess.   'Tis  said,  she  heard  in  dreams  her  Saviour 
call  her 
To  mansions  built  for  her  from  everlasting. 

Con.   Ay,  so  she  said. 

Abbess.  But  tell  me,  in  her  confession 

Was  there  no  holy  shame — no  self-abhorrence 
For  the  vile  pleasures  of  her  carnal  wedlock  ? 

Con.    She  said  no  word  thereon  :  as  for  her  shrift, 
No  Chrisom  child  could  show  a  chart  of  thoughts 
More  spotless  than  were  hers. 

J^un.  Strange,  she  said  nought ; 

I  had  hoped  she  had  grown  more  pure. 

Con.  When,  next,  I  asked  her, 

How  she  would  be  interred ;  "  In  the  vilest  weeds," 
Quoth  she,  "  my  poor  hut  holds ;  I  will  not  pamper 
When  dead,  that  flesh,  which  living  I  despised. 
And  for  my  wealth,  see  it  to  the  last  doit 
Bestowed  upon  the  poor  of  Christ." 

2c?  Woman.  Oh  grace! 

3d   Woman.     Oh  soul  to  this  world   poor,   but  rich 
toward  God ! 

Miz.    \_Awaking.']    Hark  !    how  they  cry  for  bread ! 
Poor  souls  !  be  patient ! 
I  have  spent  all — 

I'll  sell  myself  for  a  slave — feed  them  with  the  price. 
Come,  Guta !  Nurse !     We  must  be  up  and  doing ! 
Alas !  they  are  gone,  and  begging  ! 
Go  !  go  !     They  '11  beat  me,  if  I  give  you  aught : 
I'll  pray  for  you,  and  so  you  '11  go  to  Heaven. 


188  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  IV. 

I  am  a  saint — God  grants  me  all  I  ask. 

But  I  must  love  no  creature.     Why,  Christ  loved — 

Mary  he  loved,  and  Martha,  and  their  brother — 

Three  friends  !   and  I  have  none  ! 

When  Lazai'us  lay  dead,  He  groaned  in  spirit, 

And  wept — like  any  widow — Jesus  wept ! 

I'll  weep,  weep,  weep  !  pray  for  that  "  gift  of  tears." 

They  took  my  friends  away,  but  not  my  eyes. 

Oh,  husband,  babes,  friends,  jiurse  !     To  die  alone  ! 

Crack,  frozen  brain  !     Melt,  icicle  within  ! 

Women.    Alas !     Sweet  saint !     By  bitter  pangs  she 
wins 
Her  crown  of  endless  glory ! 

Con.  But  she  wins  it ! 

Stop  that  vile  sobbing :  she 's  unmanned  enough 
Without  your  maudlin  sympathy. 

JSliz.  What !  weeping  ? 

Daughters  of  Jerusalem,  weep  not  for  me — 
Weep  for  yourselves. 

Women.  We  do,  alas  !  we  do  ! 

What  are  we  without  you  ?  [  ^  pause. 

Woman.  Oh  listen,  listen  ! 

Wliat  sweet  sounds  from  her  fast-closed  lips  are  welling, 
As  from  the  caverned  shaft,  deep  miners'  songs  ? 

Eliz.  [in  a  low  voice.']  Through  the  stifling  room 
Floats  strange  perfume ; 
Through  the  crumbling  thatch 
The  angels  watch, 
Over  the  rotting  roof-tree. 


SCENE  iv.j  THE  saint's  tragedy.  189 

They  warble,  and  flutter,  and  hover  and  glide, 
Wafting  old  sounds  to  my  dreary  bedside. 
Snatches  of  songs  which  I  used  to  know 
When  I  slept  by  my  nurse,  and  the  swallows 
Called  me  at  day-dawn  from  under  the  eaves. 
Hark  to  them  !     Hark  to  them  now — 
Fluting  like  woodlarks,  tender  and  low — 
Cool  rustling  leaves — tinkling  waters — 
Sheepbells  over  the  lea — 
In  their  silver  plumes  Eden-gales  whisper — 
In  their  hands  Eden-lilies — not  for  me — not  for  me — 
No  crown  for  the  poor  fond  bride  ! 
The  song  told  me  so, 
Long,  long  ago. 
How  the  maid  chose  the  white  lily  ; 
But  the  bride  she  chose 
The  red  red  rose, 
And  by  its  thorn  died  she. 

Well — in  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions — 

I  have  trodden  the  waste  howling  ocean-foam, 

Till  I  stand  upon  Canaan's  shore, 
Where  Crusaders  from  Zion's  towers  call  me  home, 

To  the  saints  who  are  gone  before. 

G<yn"  Still  on  Crusaders  ?     \Aside. 

Abbess.  What  was  that   sweet  song,  which  just  now, 
my  Princess, 
You  murmured  to  yourself? 


190  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  IV. 

Eliz.  Did  you  not  hear 

A  little  bird  between  me  and  the  wall, 
That  sang  and  sang  ? 

Abbess.  We  heai-d  him  not,  fair  saint. 

Eliz.  I  heard  him,  and  his  merry  carol  revelled 
Through  all  my  brain,  and  woke  my  parched  throat 
To  join  his  song :  then  angel  melodies 
Burst  through  the  duU  dark,  and  the  mad  air  quivered 
Unutterable  music.     Nay,  you  heard  him. 

Abbess.  Nought  save  yourself. 

Eliz.  Slow  hours !     Was  that  the  cock-crow  ? 

Woman.  St.  Peter's  bird  did  call. 

Eliz.  Then  I  must  up — 

To  matins,  and  to  work — No,  my  work 's  over. 
And  what  is  it,  what  ? 
One  drop  of  oil  on  the  salt  seething  ocean  ! 
Thank  God,  that  one  was  born  at  this  same  hour 
Who  did  our  work  for  us :  we  '11  talk  of  Him : 
We  shall  go  mad  with  thinking  of  ourselves — 
We  '11  talk  of  Him,  and  of  that  new-made  star, 
Which,  as  he  stooped  into  the  Virgin's  side. 
From  off  His  finger,  hke  a  signet-gem,  ,* 

He  dropped  in  the  empyrean  for  a  sign. 
But  the  first  tear  He  shed  at  this  His  birth-hour. 
When  He  crept  weeping  forth  to  see  our  woe. 
Fled  up  to  Heaven  in  mist,  and  hid  forever 
Our  sins,  our  works,  and  that  same  new-made  star. 
Woman.  Poor  soul !  she  wanders ! 
Con.  Wanders,  fool  ?  her  madness 


SCENE  IV.]  THE    saint's    tragedy.  191 

Is  worth  a  million  of  your  paters,  mumbled 
At  every  station  between — 

Eliz.  Oh  !  thank  God 

Our  eyes  are  dim  !     What  should  we  do,  if  he, 
The  sneering  fiend,  who  laughs  at  all  our  toil, 
Should  meet  us  face  to  face  ? 

Con.  We  'd  call  him  fool. 

Eliz.ThQVQl    There!    Fly,  Satan,  fly !   'Tis  gone  ! 

Con.  The  victory 's  gained  at  last ! 
The  fiend  is  bafiled,  and  her  saintship  sure ! 
Oh  people  blest  of  heaven  ! 

Eliz.  Oh  master,  master ! 

You  will  not  let  the  mob,  when  I  lie  dead 
Make  me  a  show — paw  over  all  my  limbs — 
Pull  out  my  hair — pluck  off  my  finger-nails — 
Wear  scraps  of  me  for  charms  and  amulets. 
As  if  I  were  a  mummy,  or  a  drug  ? 
As  they  have  done  to  others — I  have  seen  it — 
Nor  set  me  up  in  ugly  naked  pictures 
In  every  church,  that  cold  world-hardened  wits 
May  gossip  o'er  my  secret  tortures  ?     Promise — 
Swear  to  me !     I  demand  it ! 

Con.  No  man  lights 

A  candle,  to  be  hid  beneath  a  bushel : 
Thy  virtues  are  the  Church's  dower  :  endure 
All  which  the  edification  of  the  faithful 
Makes  needful  to  be  published. 

Eliz.  Oh  my  God! 

I  had  stripped  myself  of  all,  but  modesty  ! 


192  THE    saint's    tragedy.  .       [ACT  IV. 

Dost  thou  claim  yet  that  victim  ?     Be  it  so. 

Now  take  me  home  !  I  have  no  more  to  give  thee  ! 

So  weak — and  yet  no  pain — why,  now  nought  ails  me  ! 

How  dim  the  lights  burn  !     Here — 

Where  are  you,  cliildren  ? 

Alas  !  I  had  forgotten. 

Now  I  must  sleep — for  ere  the  sun  shall  rise, 

I  must  begone  upon  a  long,  long  journey 

To  him  I  love. 

•  Con.  She  means  her  heavenly  bridegroom — 

The  spouse  of  souls. 

Eliz.  I  said,  to  him  I  love. 

Let  me  sleep,  sleep. 
You  will  not  need  to  wake  me — so — good  night. 

[Folds  herself  into  an  attitude  of  repose.     The  Scens  closes.^ 


THE    SAINT  S    TRAGEDY. 


jTi^i 


Library.   \ 

ACT  V.        >^      ^  ^  ^  ^ 

Scene  I.    a.d.  1235. 

A  Convent  at  Marpurg.     Cloisters  of  the  Infirmary.     Two 
aged  Monks  sitting. 

\st  Monk.  So  they  will  publish  to-day  the  Landgra- 
vine's canonization,  and  translate  her  to  the  new  church 
prepared  for  her.  Alack,  now,  that  all  the  world  should 
be  out  sight-seeing  and  saint-making,  and  we  laid  up 
here,  like  two  lame  jackdaws  in  a  belfry ! 

2d  Monk.  Let  be  man — let  be.  We  have  seen  sights 
and  saints  in  our  time.  And,  truly,  this  insolatio  suits 
my  old  bones  better  than  processioning. 

Is^  Monk.  'Tis  pleasant  enough  in  the  sun,  were  it  not 
for  the  flies.  Look — there 's  a  lizard.  Come  you  here, 
little  run-about ;  here  's  game  for  you. 

2d  Monk.  A  tame  fool,  and  a  gay  one — Munditiae 
mundanis. 

\st  Monk.  Catch  him  a  flat  fly — my  hand  shake th. 

2d  Monk.  If  one  of  your  new-lights  were  here,  now, 
he  'd  pluck  him  for  a  fiend,  as  Dominic  did  the  live 
sparrow  in  chapel. 

\st  Monk.  There  will  be  precious  offerings  made  to- 
day, of  which  our  house  will  get  its  share. 

2  c?  Monk.  Not  we ;  she  always  favoured  the  Francis- 
cans most. 

13 


194  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  v. 

1st  Monk.  'Twas  but  fair — they  were  her  kith  and 
kin.     She  lately  put  on  the  habit  of  their  third  minors. 

2c?  Monk.  So  have  half  the  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies 
in  Europe.  There  's  one  of  your  new  inventions,  now, 
for  letting  grand  folk  serve  God  and  mammon  at  once, 
and  emptying  honest  monasteries,  where  men  give  up  all 
for  the  Gospel's  sake.  And  now  tluise  Pharisees  of 
Franciscans  will  go  off  with  full  pockets — 

Is^  Monk.  While  we  poor  publicans — 

2c?  Monk.  Shall  not '  come  home  all  of  us  justified,  I 
think. 

\st  Monk.  How  ?     Is  there  scandal  among  us  ? 

2c?  Monk.  Ask  not — ask  not.  Even  a  fool,  when  he 
holds  his  peace  is  counted  wise.  Of  all  sins,  avoid  that 
same  gossiping. 

\st  Monk.  Nay,  tell  me  now.  Are  we  not  like  David 
and  Jonathan  ?  Have  we  not  worked  together,  prayed 
together,  journeyed  together,  and  been  soundly  flogged 
together,  more  by  token,  any  time  this  forty  years  ? 
And  now  is  news  so  plenty,  that  thou  darest  to  defraud 
me  of  a  morsel  ? 

2c?  Monk.  I'll  tell  thee — but  be  secret.  I  knew  a  man 
hard  by  the  convent  (names  are  dangerous,  and  a  bird  of 
the  air  shall  carry  the  matter,)  one  that  hath  a  mighty 
eye  for  a  heretic,  if  thou  knowest  him. 

\st  Monk.  Who  carries  his  poll  screwed  on  overtight, 
and  sits  with  his  eyes  shut  in  chapel  ? 

2c?  Monk.  The  same.  Such  a  one  to  be  in  evil  sa- 
vour— to  have  the  splendour  of  the  pontifical  countenance 


SCENE  I.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  195 

turned  from  liim,  as  though  he  had  taken  Christians  for 
Araalekites,  and  slain  the  people  of  the  Lord. 

1st  Monk.  How  now  ? 

2d  31onh  I  only  speak  as  I  hear  :  for  my  sister's  son 
is  chaplain,  for  the  time  being,  to  a  certain  Archisacerdos, 
a  foreigner,  now  lodging  where  thou  knowest.  The 
young  man  being  hid,  after  some  knavery,  behind  the 
arras,  in  come  our  quidam  and  that  prelate.  The  quidam, 
surly  and  Sas;on — the  guest,  smooth  and  Italian  ;  his 
words  softer  than  butter,  yet  very  swords :  that  this 
quidam  had  "  exceeded  the  bounds  of  his  commission — 
launched  out  into  wanton  and  lawless  cruelty — burnt 
noble  ladies  unheard,  of  whose  innocence  the  Holy  See 
had  proof — defiled  the  Catholic  faith  in  the  eyes  of  the 
weaker  sort — and  alienated  the  minds  of  many  nobles 
and  gentlemen  " — and  finally,  that  he  who  thinketh  he 
standeth,  were  wise  to  take  heed  lest  he  fall. 

Isi  Monh.  And  what  said  Conrad  ? 

2c?  Monh.  Out  upon  a  man  that  cannot  keep  his  lips  ! 
Who  spake  of  Conrad  ?  That  quidam,  however,  answered 
nought,  but — how,  "  to  his  own  master  he  stood  or  fell " 
— how  "  he  laboured  not  for  the  Pope  but  for  the  Papa- 
cy ;  "  and  so  forth. 

\st  Monk.  Here  is  awful  doctrine  !  Behold  the  fruit 
of  your  reformers !  This  comes  of  their  realized  ideas, 
and  centralizations,  and  organizations,  till  a  monk  cannot 
wink  in  chapel  without  being  blinded  with  the  lantern,  or 
fall  sick  on  Fridays,  for  fear  of  the  rod.  Have  I  not 
testified  ?     Have  I  not  fo;"etold  ? 


196  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  v. 

2d  Monh.  Thou  hast  indeed.  Thou  knowest  that  the 
old  paths  are  best,  and  Hvest  in  most  pious  abhorrence  of 
all  amendment. 

1st  Monh  Do  you  hear  that  shout  ?  There  is  the 
procession  returning  from  the  tomb. 

2d  Monk.  Hark  to  the  tramp  of  the  horse-hoofs !  A 
gallant  show,  I'll  warrant ! 

1st  Monh.  Time  was,  now,  when  we  were  young  bloods 
together  in  the  world,  such  a  roll  as  that  would  have  set 
our  hearts  beating  against  their  cages ! 

2c?  Monh.  Ay,  ay.  We  have  seen  sport  in  our  day ; 
we  have  paraded  and  curvetted,  eh  ?  and  heard  scabbards 
jingle  ?  We  know  the  sly  touch  of  the  heel,  that  set 
him  on  his  hind  legs  before  the  right  window  ?  Vanitas 
vanitatum — omnia  vanitas  !  Here  comes  Gerard,  Con- 
rad's chaplain,  with  our  dinner. 

[Gerard  enters  across  the  Court.] 

1st  Monh.  A  kindly  youth  and  a  godly,  but — ^reforma- 
tion bitten,  like  the  rest. 

2d  Monh.  Never  care.  Boys  must  take  the  reigning 
madness  in  religion,  as  they  do  the  measles — once  for  all. 

1st  Monh.  Once  too  often  for  him.  His  face  is  too, 
too  like  Abel's  in  the  chapel-window.  Ut  sis  vitalis 
metuo,  puer ! 

Ger.  Hail,  fathers.  I  have  asked  permission  of  the 
prior  to  minister  your  refection,  and  bring  you  thereby 
the  first  news  of  the  pageant. 

1st  Monh.  Blessings  on  thee  for  a  good  boy.  Give  us 
the  trenchers,  and  open  thy  mouth  while  we  open  ours. 


SCENE  l]  the    saint's'  TRAGEDY.  197 

2d  Monk.  Most  splendid  all,  no  doubt  ? 
Ger.  A  garden,  sir, 

Wherein  all  rainbowed  flowers  were  heaped  together ; 
A  sea  of  silk  and  gold,  of  blazoned  banners. 
And  chargers  housed ;  such  glorious  press,  be  sure, 
Thuringen-land  ne'er  saw. 

2d  Monk.  Just  hear  the  boy  ! 

Who  rode  beside  the  bier  ?  , 

Ger.  Frederic  the  Kaiser, 

Ilenrj  the  Landgrave,  brother  of  her  husband  ; 
The  Princesses,  too,  Agnes,  and  her  mother ; 
And  every  noble  name,  sir,  at  whose  war-cry 
The  Saxon  heart  leaps  up ;  with  them  the  prelates 
Of  Treves,  of  Coin,  and  Maintz — why  name  them  all  ? 
When  all  were  there,  whom  this  our  father-land 
Counts  worthy  of  its  love. 

1st  Monk.  'Twas  but  her  right. 

Who  spoke  the  oration  ? 

Ger.  Who  but  Conrad  ? 

2c?  Monk.  WeU— 

That 's  honour  to  our  house. 

1st  Monk.  Come,  tell  us  all. 

2c?  Monk.  In  order,  boy:  thou  hast  a  ready  tongue. 

Ger.  He  raised  from  off  her  face  the  pall,  and  "  Lo  !  " 
He  cried,  "  That  saintly  flesh  which  ye  of  late 
With  sacrilegious  hands,  ere  yet  entombed. 
Had  in  your  superstitious  selfishness 
Almost  torn  piecemeal.     Fools !     Gross-hearted  fools  ! 
These  limbs  are  God's,  not  yours  :  in  life  for  you 


198  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  v. 

They  spent  themselves  ;  now  till  the  judgment-day 

By  virtue  of  the  Spirit  embalmed  tliey  lie — 

Touch  them  who  dare.    No  !    Would  you  find  your  saint, 

Look  up,  not  down,  where  even  now  she  prays 

Beyond  that  blazing  orb  for  you  and  me. 

Why  hither  bring  her  corpse  ?     Why  hide  her  clay 

In  jewelled  ark  beneath  God's  mercy-seat — 

A  speck  of  dust  among  these  boundless  aisles, 

Uprushing  pillars,  star-bespangled  roofs, 

Whose  colours  mimic  Heaven's  unmeasured  blue. 

Save  to  remind  you,  how  she  is  not  here. 

But  risen  with  Him  that  rose,  and  by  his  blaze 

Absorbed,  lives  in  the  God  for  whom  she  died  ? 

Know  her  no  more  according  to  the  flesh  ; 

Or  only  so,  to  brand  upon  your  thoughts 

How  she  was  once  a  woman — flesh  and  blood, 

Like  you — yet  how  unlike !     Hark  while  I  tell  ye." 

2c?  Monh  How  liked  the  mob  all  this  ?     They  hate 
him  sore. 

Ger.  Half  awed,  half  sullen,  till  his  golden  lips 
Entranced  all  ears  with  tales  so  sad  and  strange. 
They  seemed  one  life-long  miracle  :  bliss  and  woe. 
Honour  and  shame — her  daring — Heaven's  stern  guid- 
ance, 
Did  each  the  other  so  outblaze. 

1st  Monh  Great  signs 

Did  wait  on  her  from  youth. 

2d  Monk.  There  went  a  tale 

Of  one,  a  Zingar  wizard,  who,  on  her  birthnight. 


SCENE  I.J   .  THE  saint's  tragedy.  ]99 

He  here  in  Eisenach,  she  in  Presburg  lying, 
Declared  her  natal  moment,  and  the  glory 
Which  should  befall  her  by  the  grace  of  God. 

Ger.  He  spoke  of  that,  and  many  a  wonder  more, 
Melting  all  hearts  to  worship — how  a  robe 
Which  from  her  shoulders,  at  a  royal  feast, 
To  some  importunate  as  alms  she  sent. 
By  miracle  within  her  bower  was  hung  again  : 
And  how  on  her  own  couch  the  Incarnate  Son 
In  likeness  of  a  leprous  serf,  she  laid : 
And  many  a  wondrous  tale,  till  now  unheard ; 
"Which,  from  her  handmaid's  oath  and  attestation, 
Siegfried  of  Maintz  to  far  Perugia  sent, 
And  sainted  Umbria's  labyrinthine  hills. 
Even  to  the  holy  Council,  where  the  Patriarchs 
Of  Antioch  and  Jerusalem,  and  with  them 
A  host  of  prelates,  magnates,  knights  and  nobles. 
Decreed  and  canonized  her  sainthood's  palm. 

\st  Monk.    Mass,  they  could  do  no  less. 

Ger.  So  thought  my  master 

For,  "  Thus,"  quoth  he,  "  the  prunates  of  the  Faith 
Have,  in  the  bull  which  late  was  read  to  you, 
Most  wisely  ratified  the  will  of  God 
Revealed  in  her  life's  splendour  :  for  the  next  count — 
These  miracles  wherewith  since  death  she  shines — 
Since  ye  must  have  your  signs,  ere  ye  believe. 
And  since  without  such  tests  the  Roman  Father 
Allows  no  saints  to  take  their  seats  in  heaven, 
Why,  there  ye  have  them ;  not  a  friar,  I  find, 


200  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  v. 

Or  old  wife  in  the  streets,  but  counts  some  dozens 

Of  blind,  deaf,  halt,  dumb,  palsied,  and  hysterical, 

Made  whole  at  this  her  tomb — A  corpse  or  two 

Was  raised,  they  say,  last  week :  "Will  that  content  you  ? 

"Will  that  content  her  ?    Earthworms  !    "Would  ye  please 

the  dead, 
Bring  sinful  souls,  not  limping  carcasses 
To  test  her  power  on  ;  which  of  you  hath  done  that  ? 
Has  any  glutton  learnt  from  her  to  fast  ? 
Or  oily  burgher  dealt  away  his  pelf? 
Has  any  painted  Jezebel  in  sackcloth 
Repented  of  her  vanities  ?     Your  patron  ? 
Think  ye,  that  spell  and  flame  of  intercession, 
Melting  God's  iron  will,  which  for  your  sakes 
She  purchased  by  long  agonies,  was  but  meant 
To  save  your  doctors'  bills  ?     If  any  soul 
Hath  been  by  her  made  holier,  let  it  speak  ! " 

2d  Monk.   "Well  spoken,  Legate !     Easier  asked  than 
answered. 

Ger,    Not  so,  for  on  the  moment,  from  the  crowd 
Sprang  out  a  gay  and  gallant  gentleman 
"Well  known  in  fight  and  tourney,  and  aloud 
"With  sobs  and  blushes  told,  how  he  long  time 
Had  wallowed  deep  in  mire  of  fleshly  sin, 
And  loathed,  and  fell  again,  and  loathed  in  vain  ; 
Until  the  story  of  her  saintly  grace 
Drew  him  unto  her  tomb  ;  there  long  prostrate 
"With  bitter  cries  he  sought  her,  till  at  length 
The  image  of  her  perfect  loveliness 


SCENE  I.]  THE    SAINT's    TRAGEDY.  201 

Transfigured  all  his  soul,  and  from  his  knees 
He  rose  new-bom,  and,  since  that  blessed  day, 
In  chastest  chivalry,  a  spotless  knight, 
Maintains  the  widow's  and  the  orphan's  cause. 

1st  Monh.    Well  done  !  and  what  said  Conrad  ? 

Ger.  Oh,  he  smiled, 

As  who  should  say,  "  'Twas  but  the  news  I  looked  for," 
Then,  pointing  to  the  banners*  borne  on  high. 
Where  the  sad  story  of  her  nightly  penance 
Was  all  too  truly  painted — "  Look ! "  he  cried, 
"  'Twas  thus  she  schooled  her  soft  and  shuddering  flesh 
To  dare  and  suffer  for  you  ! — Thus  she  won 
The  ear  of  God  for  you ! "     Gay  ladies  sighed. 
And  stern  knights  wept,  and  growled,  and  wept  again. 
And  then  he  told  her  alms,  her  mighty  labours. 
Among  God's  poor,  the  schools  wherein  she  taught ; 
The  babes  she  brought  to  the  font,  the  hospitals 
Founded  from  her  own  penury,  where  she  tended 
The  leper  and  the  fever-stricken  serf 
With  meanest  office ;  how  a  dying  slave 
Who  craved  in  vain  for  milk  she  stooped  to  feed 

From  her  own  bosom At  that  crowning  tale 

Of  utter  love,  the  dullest  hearts  caught  fire 
Contagious  from  his  lips — the  Spirit's  breath 
Low  to  the  earth,  like  dewy-laden  corn, 
Bowed  the  ripe  harvest  of  that  mighty  host ; 
Knees  bent,  all  heads  were  bare ;  rich  dames  aloud 
Bewailed  their  cushioned  sloth  ;  old  foes  held  out 
Long  parted  hands  ;  low-murmured  vows  and  prayers 


202  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  v. 

Gained  courage,  till  a  shout  proclaimed  her  saint, 

And  jubilant  thunders  shook  the  ringing  air, 

Till  birds  dropped  stunned,  and  passing  clouds  bewept 

With  crystal  drops,  like  sympathizing  angels. 

Those  wasted  limbs,  whose  sainted  ivory  round 

Shed  Eden-odours  :  from  his  royal  head 

The  Kaiser  took  his  crown,  and  on  the  bier 

Laid  the  rich  offering ;  dames  tore  off  their  jewels — 

Proud  nobles  heaped  with  gold  and  gems  her  corse 

Whom  living  they  despised :  I  saw  no  more 

Mine  eyes  were  blinded  with  a  radiant  mist — 
And  I  ran  here  to  tell  you. 

1st  3fonk.  Oh,  fair  olive. 

Rich  with  the  Spirit's  unction,  how  thy  boughs 
Rain  balsams  on  us  ! 

2d  Monk.    Thou  didst  sell  thine  all — 
And  bought'st  the  priceless  pearl ! 

1st  Monk.  Thou  holocaust  of  Abel 

By  Cain  in  vain  despised  ! 

26?  Monk.   Thou  angels'  playmate 
Of  yore,  but  now  their  judge ! 

Ger.         .  Thou  alabaster. 

Broken  at  last,  to  fill  the  house  of  God 

With  rich  celestial  fragrance  ! 

[Src,  ^c,  ad  libitum. 

Scene  II. 
A  Room  in  a  Convent  at  Mayence.     Conrad  alone. 
Con.   The  work  is  done !     Diva  Elizabeth ! 


203 

And- 1  have  trained  one  saint  before  I  die ! 

Yet  now  'tis  done,  is 't  well  done  ?     On  my  lips 

Is  triumph  :  but  what  echo  in  my  heart  ? 

Alas  !  the  inner  voice  is  sad  and  dull, 

Even  at  the  crown  and  shout  of  victory. 

Oh !  I  had  hugged  this  purpose  to  my  heart, 

Cast  by  for  it  all  ruth,  all  pride,  all  scruples  ; 

Yet  now  its  face,  that  seemed  as  pure  as  crystal. 

Shows  fleshly,  foul,  and  stained  with  tears  and  gore ! 

We  make,  and  moil,  like  children  in  their  gardens^ 

And  spoil  with  dabbled  hands,  our  flowers  i'  the  planting. 

And  yet  a  saint  is  made  !     Alas,  those  children  ! 

Was  there  no  gentler  way  ?     I  know  not  any  : 

I  plucked  the  gay  moth  from  the  spider's  web ; 

What  if  my  hasty  hand  have  smirched  its  feathers  ? 

Sure,  if  the  whole  be  good,  each  several  part 

May  for  its  private  blots  forgiveness  gain, 

As  in  man's  tabernacle,  vile  elements 

Unite  to  one  fair  stature.     Who  '11  gainsay  it  ? 

The  whole  is  good  ;  another  saint  in  heaven  ; 

Another  bride  within  the  Bridegroom's  arms ; 

And  she  will  pray  for  me  ! — And  yet  what  matter  ? 

Better  that  I,  this  paltry  sinful  unit, 

Fall  fighting,  crushed  into  the  nether  pit, 

If  my  dead  corpse  may  bridge  the  path  to  Heaven, 

And  damn  itself,  to  save  the  souls  of  others. 

A  noble  ruin :  yet  small  comfort  in  it ; 

In  it,  or  in  aught  else 

A  blank  dim  cloud  before  mine  inward  sense 


204  THE  saint's  tragedy. 

Dulls  all  the  past :  she  spoke  of  such  a  cloud- 
I  struck  her  for't,  and  said  it  was  a  fiend 


She 's  happy  now,  before  the  throne  of  God 

I  should  be  merry ;  yet  my  heart's  floor  sinks 

As  on  a  fast  day ;  sure  some  evil  bodes. 

Would  it  were  here,  that  I  might  see  its  eyes  ! 

The  future  only  is  unbearable ; 

We  quail  before  the  rising  thunderstorm 

Which  thrills  and  whispers  in  the  stifled  air. 

Yet  blench  not,  when  it  falls.     Would  it  were  here  ! 

[Pause.] 
I  fain  would  sleep,  yet  dare  not :  all  the  air 
Throngs  thick  upon  me  with  the  pregnant  terror 
Of  life  unseen,  yet  near.     I  dare  not  meet  them, 

As  if  I  sleep  I  shall  do 1  again  ? 

Wliat  matter  what  I  feel,  or  like,  or  fear  ? 

Come  what  God  sends.    Within  there — Brother  Gerard  ! 

[Gerard  enters.] 
Watch  here  an  hour,  and  pray. — The  fiends  are  busy. 
So — hold  my  hand.  [Crosses  himself. 

Come  on — I  fear  you  not.  [Sleeps. 

[Gerard  sings.] 

Qui  fugiens  mundi  gravia, 

Contempsit  camis  bravia, 

Cupidinisque  somnia, 

Lucratur,  perdens,  omnia. 

Hunc  gestant  ulnis  angeli, 
Ne  lapis  officiat  pedi ; 


s(i:m:  ii.]  THE    SAINT's    TRAGEDY.  205 

Ne  luce  timor  occupet, 
Aut  nocte  pestis  incubet. 

Huic  coeli  lilia  germinant ; 
Arrisus  sponsi  permanent ; 
Ac  noraen  in  fidelibus 
Quam  filiorum  melius.  [Sleeps.] 

#  *  ♦  *  *  * 

[Conrad"  awahing.']  Stay  !    Spirits,  stay  !     Art  thou 

a  hell-born  phantasm, 
Or  word  too  true,  sent  by  the  mother  of  Grod  ? 
Oh  tell  me,  queen  of  Heaven  ! 
Oh  God  !  if  she,  the  city  of  the  Lord, 
Who  is  the  heart,  the  brain,  the  ruling  soul 
Of  half  the  earth  ;  wherein  all  kingdoms,  laws, 
Authority,  and  faith  do  culminate, 
And  draw  from  her  their  sanction  and  their  use  ; 
The  lighthouse  founded  on  the  rock  of  ages, 
Whereto  the  Gentiles  look,  and  still  are  healed  ; 
The  tree  whose  rootlets  drink  of  every  river, 
Whose  boughs  drop  Eden  fruits  on  seaward  isles ; 
Christ's  seamless  coat,  rainbowed  with  gems  and  hues 
Of  all  degrees  and  uses,  rend,  and  tarnish, 
And.  crumble  into  dust ! 
Vanitas  vanitatum,  omnia  vanitas  ! 
Oh !    to    have    prayed,    and    toiled and    lied — for 

this ! 
For  this  to  have  crushed  out  the  heart  of  youth, 
And  sat  by  calm,  while  living  bodies  burned  ! 


206  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  v. 

How  ?  Gerard  ;  sleeping  ? 

Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  one  hour,  mj  son  ? 

Ger.  \awaking^  How !  hare  I  slept  ?    Shame  on  my 
vaporous  brain  ! 
And  yet  there  crept  along  my  hand  from  thine 
A  leaden  languor,  and  the  drowsy  air 
Teemed  thick  with  humming  wings — I  slept  perforce. 
Forgive  m§  (while  for  breach  of  holy  rule 
Due  penance  shall  seem  honour)  my  neglect. 

Gon.  I  should  have  beat  thee  for 't,  an  hour  agone — 
Now  I  judge  no  man ;  What  are  rules  and  methods  ? 
I  have  seen  things  which  make  my  brain-sphere  reel : 
My  magic  teraph-bust,  full  packed  and  labelled, 
With  saws,  ideas,  dogmas,  ends,  and  theories. 
Lies  shivered  into  dust :  Pah !  we  do  squint 
Each    through    his   loophole,    and   then    dream,   broad 

heaven 
Is  but  the  patch  we  see.     But  let  none  know  ; 
Be  silent,  Gerard,  wary. 

Ger.  Nay — I  know  naught 

Of  that  which  moves  thee :  though  I  fain  would  ask — 

Con.  I  saw  our  mighty  Mother,  Holy  Church, 
Sit  like  a  painted  harlot ;  round  her  limbs 
An  oily  snake  had  coiled,  who  smiled,  and  smiled, 
And  lisped  the  name  of  Jesus — I'll  not  tell  thee : 
I  have  seen  more  than  man  can  see,  and  live  : 
God,  when  He  grants  the  tree  of  knowledge,  bans 
The  luckless  seer  from  off  the  tree  of  life. 
Lest  he  become  as  gods,  and  burst  with  pride  ; 


8CEXE  III.]  THE    saint's    TRAGEDY.  207 

Or  sick  at  sight  of  his  own  nothingness, 

Lie  down,  and  be  a  fiend :  my  time  is'  near. 

Well — I  have  neither  child,  nor  kin,  nor  friend. 

Save  thee,  my  son ;  I  shall  go  lightly  forth. 

Thou  knowest,  we  start  for  Marpurg  on  the  morrow  ? 

Thou  wilt  go  with  me  ? 

Ger.  Ay,  to  death,  my  master ; 

Yet  boorish  heretics,  with  grounded  throats, 
Mutter  like  sullen  bulls  ;  the  Count  of  Saym, 
And  many  gentlemen,  they  say,  have  sworn 
A  fearful  oath  :  there  's  danger  in  the  wind. 

Con.  They  have  their  quarrel ;  I  was  keen  and  hasty : 
Gladio  qui  utitur,  peribit  gladio. 

When   Heaven   is   strong,  then  Hell   is  strong :  Thou 
fear'st  not  ? 

Ger.  No!  though  their  name  were  legion  J  'Tis  for  thee 
Alone  I  quake,  lest  by  some  pious  boldness 
Thou  quench  the  light  of  Israel. 

Con.  Light  ?  my  son  ! 

There  shall  no  light  be  quenched,  when  I  lie  dark. 
Our  path  trends  outward  :  we  will  forth  to-morrow  : 
Now  let 's  to  chapel ;  matin  bells  are  ringing. .       [Exeunt. 

Scene  III. 

A  road  between  Eisenach  and  Marpurg.  Peasants  waiting  by 
the  road-side.  Walter  of  Varila,  the  Count  of  Saym, 
and  other  Gentlemen^  entering  on  horseback. 

Gent.  Talk  not  of  honour — Hell 's  a-flame  within  me  : 
Foul  water  quenches  fire  as  well  as  fair ; 


208  THE    saint's    tragedy.  [act  III. 

If  I  do  meet  him,  he  shall  die  the  death, 

Come  fair,  come  foul :  I  tell  you,  there  are  wrongs 

The  fumbling  piecemeal  law  can  never  touch, 

Which  bring  of  themselves  to  the  injured,  rigfit  divine. 

Straight  from  the  fount  of  right,  above  all  parchments. 

To  be  their  own  avengers :  dainty  lawyers, 

If  one  shall  slay  the  adulterer  in  the  act, 

Dare  not  condemn  him  :  girls  have  stabbed  their  tyrants, 

And  common  sense  has  crowned  them  saints  ;  yet  what — 

What  were  their  wrongs  to  mine  ?  All  gone  !  All  gone ! 

My  noble  boys,  whom  I  had  trained,  poor  fools, 

To  win  their  spurs,  and  ride  afield  with  me  ! 

I  could  have  spared  them — ^but  my  wife  !  my  lady ! 

Those  dainty  limbs,  which  knew  no  eyes  but  mine — 

Before  that  ruffian  mob — Too  much  for  man  ! 

Too  much,  stern  Heaven  ! — Those  eyes,  those  hands, 

Those  tender  feet,  where  I  have  lain  and  worshipped — 

Food  for  fierce  flames  !     And  on  the  self  same  day — 

The  day  that  they  were  seized — unheard — unargued — 

No  witness,  but  one  vile  convicted  thief — 

The  dog  is  dead  and  buried :  Well  done,  henchmen ! 

They  are  not  buried  !     Pah  !  their  ashes  flit 

About  the  common  air  ;  we  pass  them — breathe  them  ! 

The  self-same  day  !     If  I  had  had  one  look ! 

One  word — one  single  tiny  spark  of  word,  * 

Such  as  two  swallows  change  upon  the  wing ! 

She  was  no  heretic :  she  knelt  forever 

Before  the  blessed  rood,  and  prayed  for  me. 

Ar't  sure  he  comes  this  road  ? 


SCENE  III.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  209 

C.  Saym.  My  messenger 

Saw  him  start  forth,  and  watched  him  past  the  cross- 
ways  : 
An  hour  will  bring  him  here. 

C.  Wal.  How  ?  ambuscading  ? 

I'll  not  sit  by,  while  helpless  priests  are  butchered ; 
Shame,  gentles ! 

C.  Saym.  On  my  word,  I  knew  not  on't 

Until  this  hour  :  my  quarrel 's  not  so  sharp, 
But  I  may  let  him  pass  :  my  name  is  righted 
Before  the  Emperor,  from  all  his  slanders  ; 
And  what 's  revenge  to  me  ? 

Gent.  Ay,  ay — forgive  and  forget — 
The  vermin  's  trapped — and  we  '11  be  gentle-handed, 
And  lift  him  out,  and  bid  his  master  speed  him. 
Him  and  his  firebrands.     He  shall  never  pass  me. 

O.  Wal.  I  will  not  see  it ;  I'm  old,  and  sick  of  blood. 
She  loved  him,  while  she  lived  ;  and  charged  me  once. 
As  her  sworn  liegeman,  not  to  harm  the  knave. 
I'll  home ;  yet,  knights,  if  aught  untoward  happen. 
And  you  should  need  a  shelter,  come  to  me  : 
My  walls  are  strong.      Home,  knaves !  we  '11  seek  our 

wives, 
And  beat  our  swords  to  ploughshares — when  folks  let  us. 
[  Exeunt  Coijnt  Walter  and  Suite. 

C.  Saym.    He 's  gone,  brave  heart !     But — sir,  you 
will  not  dare  ? 
The  Pope's  own  legate — think — there 's  danger  in 't. 

Gent.    Look,  how  athwart  yon  sullen  sleeping  flats 
14 


210  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  v. 

That  frowning  thunder-cloud  sails  pregnant  hither ; — 

And  black  against  its  sheeted  gray,  one  bird 

Flags  fearful  onward — 'Tis  his  cursed  soul ! 

Now  thou  shalt  quake,  raven  ! — The  self-same  day ! — 

He  cannot  'scape !     The  stonn  is  close  upon  him  ? 

There !    There  !   the  wreathing  spouts  have  swallowed 

him ! 
He 's  gone  !  and  see,  the  keen  blue  spark  leaps  out 
From  crag  to  crag,  and  every  vaporous  pillar 
Shouts  forth  his  death-doom  !     'Tis  a  sign,  a  sign  ! 

[A  heretic  preacher  mounts  a  stone. — Peasants  gather  round  him.] 
These  are  starved  unlettered  hinds,  forsooth. 
He  hunted  down  like  vermin — for  a  doctrine. 
They  have  their  rights,  their  wrongs  ;  their  lawless  laws, 
Their  witless  arguings,  which  unconscious  reason 
Informs  to  just  conclusions.     We  will  hear  them. 

Preacher.  My  brethren,  I  have  a  message  to  you : 
therefore  hearken  with  all  your  ears — ^for  now  is  the  day 
of  salvation.  It  is  written,  that  the  childi'cn  of  this  world 
are  in  their  generation  wiser  than  the  childi-en  of  light — 
and  truly :  for  the  children  of  this  world,  when  they  are 
troubled  with  vermin,  catch  them — and  hear  no  more  of 
them.  But  you,  the  children  of  light,  the  elect  saints,  the 
poor  of  this  world  rich  in  faith,  let  the  vermin  eat  your 
lives  out,  and  then  fall  down  and  worship  them  after- 
wards. You  are  all  besotted — hag-ridden — drunkards 
sitting  in  the  stocks,  and  bowing  down  to  the  said  stocks, 
and  making  a  god  thereof  Of  part,  saith  the  prophet, 
ye  make  a  god,  and  part  serve  th  to  roast — to  roast  the 


SCENE  III.]  THE    saint's    tragedy.  211 

flesh  of  your  sons  and  of  your  daughtei-s ;  and  then  ye 
cry,  "  Aha,  I  am  warm,  I  have  seen  the  fire ; "  and  a 
special  fire  ye  have  seen  !  The  ashes  of  your  wives  and 
of  your  brothers  cleave  to  your  clothes. — Cast  them  up 
to  Heaven,  cry  aloud,  and  quit  yourselves  like  men  ! 

Gent.     He  speaks  God's  truth !     We  are  Heaven's 
justicers  ! 
Our  woes  anoint  us  kings  !     Peace — Hark  again  ! — 

Preacher.  Therefore,  as  I  said  before — in  the  next 
place — It  is  written,  that  there  shall  •  be  a  two  edged- 
sword  in  the  hand  of  the  saints.  But  the  saints  have 
but  two  swords — Was  there  a  sword  or  shield  found 
among  ten  thousand  in  Israel  ?  Then  let  Israel  use  his 
fists,  say  I  the  preacher !  For  this  man  hath  shed  blood, 
and  by  man  shall  his  blood  be  «hed.  Now  behold  an 
argument. — Tliis  man  hath  shed  blood,  even  Conrad; 
ergo,  as  he  saith  himself,  ye,  if  ye  are  men,  shall  shed  his 
blood.  Doth  he  not  himself  say  ergo  ?  Hath  he  not  said 
ergo  to  the  poor  saints,  to  yom'  sons  and  your  daughters, 
whom  he  hath  burned  in  the  fire  to  Moloch  ?  "  Ergo, 
thou  art  a  heretic  " — "  Ergo,  thou  shalt  burn."  Is  he  not 
therefore  convicted  out  of  his  own  mouth  ?  Arise  there- 
fore,  be  vaUant — for  this  day  he  is  delivered  into  your 
hand! 

{Chanting  heard  in  the  distance.] 

Feasant.     Hush !  here  the  psalm-singers  come  ! 
[CoiotAD  enters  on  a  mule,  chanting  the  psalter,  Geraed  foUomng.] 
Con.   My  peace  with  you,  my  children ! 


212  THE  saint's  tragedy.  [act  v. 

1st  Voice.    Psalm  us  no  psalms ;   bless  us  no  de\^'s 
blessings  : 
Your  balms  will  break  our  heads. 

[A  murmur  rises. 
2d   Voice.    You  are  welcome,  sir;   we  ai-e  a-waiting 
for  you. 

Sd  Voice.    Has  he  been  shriven  to-day  ? 
4th    Voice.     Where   is   your   ergo,   Master  Conrad  ? 
Faugh ! 
How  both  the  fellows  smell  of  smoke  ! 

5th  Voice.     A  strange  leech  he,  to  suck,  and  suck, 
and  suck, 
And  look  no  fatter  for 't ! 

Old  Woman.    Give  me  back  my.  sons  ! 
Old  Man.     Give  me  back  the  light  of  mine  eyes, 
IVIine  only  daughter ! 

My  only  one  !     He  hurled  her  over  the  cliffs ! 
Avenge  me,  lads,  you  are  young ! 

A:th  Voice.     We  will,  we  will :  why  smit'st  him  not, 
thou  with  the  pole-axe  ? 

3c?  Voice.    Nay,  now,  the  first  blow  costs  most,  and 
heals  last : 
Besides,  the  dog 's  a  priest,  at  worst. 

G.  Saym.    Mass !    How  the  shaveling  rascal  stands  at 
bay ! 
There 's  not  a  rogue  of  them  dare  face  his  eye  ! 
True  Domiili  canis  !  'Ware  the  bloodhound's  teeth,  curs  ! 
Preacher.    What !    Are  ye  afraid  ?     The  huntsman 's 
here  at  last 


SCENE  in.]  THE  saint's  tragedy.  213 

Without  his  whip  !     Down  with  him,  craven  hounds  ! 
ril  help  ye  to  't.  [Springs  from  the  stone. 

Gent.    Ay,  down  with  him  !    Mass,  have  these  yelping 
boors 
More  heart  than  I  ?  [Spurs  his  horse  forward. 

Moh.    A  knight !  a  champion  ! 

Voice.  He 's  not  mortal  man  ! 

See  how  his  eyes  shine  !     'Tis  the  archangel ! 
St.  Michael  come  to  the  rescue  !    Ho  !    St.  Michael ! 
[He  lunges  at  Conbad.      Gerard  turns  the  lance  aside,  and  throws 
his  arms  round  Conrad.] 
Ger.     My   master  !     my  master  !      The   chariot  of 
Israel  and  the  horses  thereof! 
Oh  call  down  fire  from  Heaven  ! 

[A  Peasant  strikes  down  Gerard.    Conrad,  ovei'  the  bodt/.] 
Alas  !  my  son  !    This  blood  shall  cry  for  vengeance 
Before  the  throne  of  God ! 

Gent.  And  cry  in  vain  ! 

Follow  thy  minion  !     Join  Folquet  in  hell ! 

[Bears  Conraj>  doum  on  his  lance-point. 
Con.    I  am  the  vicar  of  the  vicar  of  Christ : 
Who  touches  me,  doth  touch  the  Son  of  God. 

[The  Mob  close  over  him.] 
Oh  God  !     A  martyr's  crown  !     Elizabeth !  [Dies. 


NOTES    TO  ACT  I. 


The  references,  unless  it  be  otherwise  specified,  are  to  the  Eight  Books 
concerning  Saint  Elizabeth^  by  Dietrich  the  Thuringian  :  in  Basn age's 
Canisius,  Vol.  IV.,  p.  113,  (Antwerp,  1725.) 

Page  31.  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  3.  Dietrich  is  eloquent  about  her  youthful 
inclination  for  holy  places  and  church  doors,  even  when  sliut,  and 
gives  many  real  proois  of  her  '  sanctae  indolis,'  from  the  very  cradle. 

P.  32.  '  St.  John's  sworn  maid.'  Cf.  Lib.  L  H-  '  She  chose  by  lot 
for  her  patron,  St.  John  the  protector  of  virginity.' 

P.  33.  *  Fit  for  my  princess.'  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  2.  '  He  sent  with  his 
daughter  vessels  of  gold,  silver  baths,  jewels,  pilhtos  all  of  silk.  No 
such  things,  so  precious  or  so  many,  were  ever  seen  in  Thuringen 
land.' 

Ibid.  '  Most  friendless.'  Cf.  Lib.  L  §§  5,  6.  '  The  courtiers  used 
bitterly  to  insult  her,  &c.  Her  mother  and  sister-in-law,  given  to 
worldly  pomp,  diffei-ed  from  her  exceedingly ; '  and  much  more  con- 
cerning '  the  persecutions  which  she  endured  patiently  in  youth.' 

P.  34.  '  In  one  cradle.'  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  2.  '  TJie  princess  was  laid  in 
the  cradle  of  her  boy-spouse,'  and,  says  another,  '  the  infants  embraced 
with  smiles,  from  whence  the  bystanders  drew  a  joyful  omen  of  their 
future  happiness.' 

Ibid.  '  If  thou  love  him.'  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  6.  '  The  Lord  by  His  hid 
den  inspiration,  so  inclined  towards  her  the  heart  of  the  prince,  that 
in  the  solitude  of  secret  and  mutual  love  he  used  to  speak  sweetly  to 
her  heart,  with  kindness  and  consolation:  and  was  always  wont,  on 
returning  home,  to  honour  her  with  presents,  and  soothe  her  with 
embraces.'  It  was  their  custom,  says  Dietrich,  to  the  last  to  call  each 
other  in  common  convei-sation,  '  Brother,'  and  '  Sister.' 

P.  35.  '  To  his  charge.'  Cf.  Lib.  L  §  7.  '  Walter  of  Varila,  a  good 
man,  who,  having  been  sent  by  the  prince's  father  into  Hungary,  had 
brought  the  blessed  Elizabeth'into  Thuringen  land.' 

P.  37.  '  The  blind  archer.  Love.'  For  information  about  the  pagan 
orientalism  of  the  Troubadours,  the  blasphemous  bombast  by  which 
they  provoked  their  persecution  in  Provence,  and  their  influence  on 
the  courts  of  Europe,  see  Sismondi,  Lit.  Southern  Europe,  Cap.  UI. 

P.  39.  *  Stadings.'  The  Stadings,  according  to  Fleury,  in  a  d.  1233, 
were  certain  unruly  fen-men,  who  refused  to  pay  tithes,  committed 


216  NOTES. 

great  cruelties  on  religious  of  both  sexes,  woi-shipped,  or  were  said  to 
worship,  a  Wack  cat,  &;c.,  considered  tlie  devil  as  a  very  ill-used  per- 
sonage, and  the  rightful  lord  of  themselves  and  the  world,  and  w^-e 
of  the  most  profligate  morals.  An  impartial  and  philosophic  inves- 
tigation of  this  and  other  early  continental  heresies,  is  much  wanted. 

P.  52.  'All  gold.'  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  7.  For  Walter's  interference  and 
Lewis's  answer,  which  I  have  paraphrased. 

P.  54.  '  Is  crowned  with  thorns.'  Cf.  Libu  I.  §  5,  for  this  anecdote 
and  her  defence,  which  I  have  in  like  manner  paraphrased. 

Ibid.  *  Their  pardon.'  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  3,  for  this  quaint  method  of  self 
humiliation. 

P.  55.  '  You  know  your  place.'  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  6.  '  The  vassals  and 
relations  of  her  betrothed  persecuted  her  openly,  and  plotted  to  send 
her  back  to  her  father  divorced      ....      Sophia  also  did  all 

she  could  to  place  her  in  a  convent She  delighted  in 

the  company  of  maids  and  servants,  so  that  Sophia  used  to  say 
Bneeringly  to  her,  "  You  should  have  been  counted  among  the  slaves 
who  drudge,  and  not  among  the  princes  who  rule."  ' 

P.  57.  '  Childish  laughter.'  Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  7.  '  The  holy  maiden 
receiving  the  miiTor,  showed  her  joy  by  delighted  laughter:'  and 
again,  if.  §  8.  '  They  loved  each  other  in  the  charity  of  the  Lord,  to 
a  degree  beyond  all  belief.' 

Ibid.  *  A  crystal  clear.'     Cf.  Lib.  I.  §  7. 

P.  60.  '  Our  fairest  bride.'  Cf.  Lib.  L  §  8.  '  No  one  henceforth 
dared  oppose  the  marriage  by  word  or  plot,'  .  .  .  '  and  all 
mouths  were  stopped.' 


NOTES   TO    ACT   11. 

P.  62;  p.  64;  p.  65;  p.  66.     Cf.  Lib.  IL  §§  1,  5,  11,  et  passim. 

Hitherto  my  notes  have  been  a  careful  selection  of  the  few  grains 
of  chai-acteristic  fact  which  I  could  find  among  Dietrich's  lengthy 
professional  reflections ;  but  the  chapter  on  which  this  scene  is  founded 
IS  remarkable  enough  to  be  given  whole,  and  as  I  have  a  long-standing 
friendship  for  the  good  old  monk,  who  is  full  of  honest  naivete  and 
deep-hearted  sympathv,  and  have  no  wish  to  disgust  all  my  readers 
with  him,  I  shall  give  it  for  the  most  part  untranslat-ed.  In  the  mean 
time,  those  who  may  be  shocked  at  certain  expressions  in  this  poem, 
borrowed  from  the  Romish  devotional  school,  may  verify  my  language 
at  the  Romish  booksellers',  who  find  just  now  a  rapidly  increasing 
sale  for  such  ware.  And  is  it  not,  after  all,  a  hopeful  sign  for  the  age, 
that  even  the  most  questionable  literaiy  tastes  must  now-a-days  ally 
themselves  with  religion — that  the  hotbed  imaginations  which  used 
to  batten  on  Rousseau  and  Byron,  have  now  risen  at  least  as  liigh  as 
the  Vies  des  Saints,  and  St.  Francois  de  Sales'  Philothea?    The  truth 


NOTES.  217 

is,  that  in  such  a  time  as  this,  in  the  dawn  of  an  age  of  faith,  whose 
future  magnificence  we  may  surely  prognosticate  from  the  slowness 
and  complexity  of  its  self-developing  process,  spiritual  '  Werterism,' 
among  other  stVange  prolusions,  must  have  its  place.  The  emotions 
and  the  imaginations  will  assert  their  just  right  to  be  fed — by  foul 
means,  if  not  b}'  fair;  and  even  self-torture  will  have  charms,  after 
the  utter  dryness  and  life-in-death  of  mere  ecclesiastical  pedantry.  It 
is  good,  mournful  though  it  be,  that  a  few,  even  by  gorging  themselves 
with  poison,  should  indicate  the  rise  of  a  spiritual  hunger — if  we  do 
but  take  their  fate  as  a  warning  to  provide  wholesome  food  before  the 
new  craving  has  extended  itself  to  the  many.  It  is  good  that  religion 
should  have  its  Werterism,  in  order  that  hereafter  Werterism  may 
have  its  religion.  But  to  my  quotations — wherein  the  reader  will 
judge  how  difficult  it  has  been  for  me  to  satisfy  at  once  the  delicacy 
of  the  English  mind,  and  that  historic  truth  which  the  highest  art 
demands. 

'  Erat  inter  eos  honorabJle  connubium,  et  thorus  immaculatus,  non 
in  ardore  libidinis,  sed  in  conjugalis  sanctimonise  castitate.  For  the 
holy  maiden,  as  soon  as  she  was  married,  began  to  macerate  her  flesh 
with  many  watchings,  rising  every  night  to  pray;  her  husband  some- 
times sleeping,  sometimes  conniving  at  hei',  often  begging  her,  in  com- 
passion to  her  delicacy,  not  to  afflict  herself  indiscreetly,  often  sup- 
porting her  with  his  hand,  when  she  prayed.  ('•  And,"  says  another  of 
Iier  biographers,  "being  taught  by  her  to  pray  with  her.")  Great, 
truly,  was  the  devotion  of  this  young  girl,  who  rising  from  the  bed  of 
her  carnal  husband,  sought  Christ,  whom  she  loved  as  the  true  h,ui~ 
band  of  her  soul. 

'  Nor  certainly  was  there  less  faith  in  the  husband  who  did  not 
oppose  such  and  so  great  a  wife,  but  rather  favoured  her,  and  tem- 
pered her  fervour  with  over-kind  prudence.  Affected,  therefore,  by 
the  sweetness  of  this  modest  love,  and  mutual  society,  they  could  not 
bear  to  be  separated  for  any  length  of  time  or  distance.  The  lady 
therefore  frequently  followed  her'  husband  through  rough  roads,  and 
no  small  distances,  and  severe  wind  and  weather,  led  rather  by  emo- 
tions of  sincerity  than  of  carnality:  for  the  chaste  presence  of  a  inodesi 
husband  offered  no  obstacle  to  that  devout  s/xtuse  in  the  way  of  praying., 
watching,  or  otherwise  doing  good.'' 

Then  follows  the  story  of  her  nurse  waking  Lewis  instead  of  her, 
and  Lewis's  easy  good-nature  about  this,  as  about  every  other  event 
of  life,  '  And  so,  after  these  unwearied  watchings,  it  often  happened 
that  praying  for  an  excessive  length  of  time,  she  fell  asleep  on  a  mat 
beside  her  husband's  bed,  and  being  reproved  for  it  by  her  maidens, 
answered, — "  Though  I  caimot  always  pray,  yet  I  can  do  violence  to 
my  own  flesh  by  tearing  myself  in  the  mean  time  from  my  couch."  ' 

'  Fugiebat  oblectamenta  carnalia,  et  ideo  stratum  molliorem,  et  viri 
contubernium  secretisslmum,  quantum  licuit,  declinavit.  Quern  quamvis 
jrnEcordialis  amor  is  affcciu  diligeret,  querulabatur  tamen  dohns,  quod 
virginalis  dtcorem  fioris  non  meruit  constrvare.  Oastigabat  etiam  plagis 
multis,  et  lacerabat  diris  verberibus  carnem  puella  innocens  et  pudica. 

'  In  principio  quidem  diebus  quadragesimaj,  sextisque  feriis  aliis 
occultas  solebat  accipere  disciplinas,  IjEtam  coram,  hominibus  se  os- 
tentants.  Post  verb  convahscens  et  proficiens  in  gratia,  deserto  dilecti 
thoro  surgens,  fecit  se  in  secreto  cubiculo  per  anciUarum  muuus  gravi- 


218  NOTES. 

ter  sjcpisslme  verberari,  ad  lectumque  raariti  reversa  hilarera  se  ex- 
hibuit  et  jocundam. 

'  Vere  felices  conjuges,  in  miorum  consortio  tanta  munditia,  in  col- 
loquio  pudicitia  reperta  est.  In  quibus  amor  Christi  concupiscentiam 
extinxit,  devotio  refrenavit  petulantiam,  fervor  spiritiis  excussit  somno- 
lentiam,  oratio  tutavit  conscientiam,  charitas  bencfaciendi  facultatem 
tribuit  et  lajtitiam ! ' 

P.  79.  '  In  every  scruple,'  Cf.  Lib.  III.  §  9,  how  Lewis  '  consented 
that  Elizabeth  his'  wife  should  make  a  vow  of  obedience  and  conti- 
nence at  the  will  of  the  said  Conrad,  sakdjure  matrimonii 

P.  81,  '  The  open  street.'  Cf.  Lib.  IL  §  11.  '  On  the  Rogation 
days,  when  certain  persons  doing  contrary  to  the  decrees  of  the  saints 
are  decorated  with  precious  and  luxurious  garments,  the  Princess, 
dressed  in  serge  and  barefooted,  used  to  follow  most  devoutly  the  Pro- 
cession of  the  cross  and  the  relics  of  the  Saints,  and  place  herself 
always  at  sermon  among  the  poorest  women,  "  knowing,"  says  Dietrich, 
"  that  seeds  cast  into  the  valleys  spring  up  into  the  richest  crop  of 
corn."' 

Ibid.  '  The  poor  of  Christ.'  Cf.  Lib.  II.  §§  6,  11,  et  passim.  Eliza- 
beth's labours  among  the  poor  are  too  well  known  throughout  one  half 
at  least  of  Christendom,  where  she  is,,  par  excellence,  the  patron  of  the 
poor,  to  need  quotations. 

P.  83.  '  I'll  be  thy  pupil.'  Cf.  Lib.  H.  §  4.  '  She  used  also,  by 
words  and  examples,  to  oblige  the  worldly  ladies  who  came  to  her  to 
give  up  the  vanity  of  the  world,  at  least  m  some  one  particular.' 

P.  85.  '  Conrad  enters.'  Cf.  Lib.  III.  §  9,  where  this  story  of  the 
disobeyed  message  and  the  punishment  inflicted  by  Conrad  for  it,  is 
told  word  for  word. 

P.  89.    '  Peaceably  come  by.'     Cf.  Lib.  E.  §  6. 

P.  90.     '  Bond  slaves.'     Cf.  Note  11. 

P.  93.  '  Elizabeth  passes.'  Cf.  Lib.  IL  §  5.  '  This  most  Christian 
mother,  impletis  purgationis  sum  diebus,  used  to  dress  herself  in  serge, 
and  taking  in  her  amns  her  new-born  child,  used  to  go  forth  seci*etly 
barefooted  by  the  difficult  descent  from  the  castle  by  a  rough  and 
rocky  road  to  a  remote  church,  carrying  her  infant  in  her  own  arms, 
after'  the  example  of  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  offering  him  upon  the 
altar  to  the  Lord  with  a  taper,'  (and  with  gold,  says  another  biogra- 
pher.)    . 

P.  95.  '  Give  us  bread.'  Cf.  Lib.  III.  ^6.  'a.  d.  1225,  white  the 
Landgrave  was  gone  to  Italy  to  the  Emperor,  a  severe  famine  arose 
throughout  all  Almaine;  and  lasting  for  nearly  two  years,  destroyed 
many  with  hunger.  Then  Elizabeth,  moved  with  compassion  for  the 
miserable,  collected  all  the  corn  from  her  granaries,  and  distributed  it 
as  alms  for  the  poor.  She  also  built  a  hospital  at  the  foot  of  tlie  Wart- 
burg,  wherein  she  placed  all  those  who  could  not  wait  for  the  general 

distribution She  sold  her  own  ornaments  to  feed  the 

members  of  Christ Cuidam  misero  lac  desideranti,  ad 

mulgendum  se  prajbuit  I  '—See  p.  162. 


NOTES.  219 

P.  107.  '  Ladies'  tenderness.'  Cf.  Lib.  in.  ^  8.  '  Wlien  the  cour 
tiers  and  stewards  complained  on  his  return  of  the  Lady  Elizabeth's 
too  great  extravagance  in  alms-giving,  "  Let  her  alone,"  quoth  he,  "to 
do  good,  and  to  give  whatever  she  will  for  God's  sake,  only  keep 
Wartburg  and  Neuenburg  in  my  hands."  ' 

P.  116.  'A  crusader's  cross.'  Cf.  Lib.  IV.  §  1.  'In  the  year 
1227  there  was  a  general  "Passagium"  to  the  holy  land,  in  which 
Frederick  the  Emperor  also  crossed  the  seas,'  (or  rather  did  not  cross, 
says  Heinrich  Stero,  in  his  annals,  but  having  got  as  far  as  Sicily, 
came  back  again, — miserably  disappointing  and  breaking  up  the  expe- 
dition, whereof  the  greater  part  died  at  the  various  ports, — and  was 
excommunicated  for  so  doing;)  'and  Lewis,  landgi'ave  of  the  Thurin- 

gians,  took  the  cross  likewise  in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  and 

did  not  immediately  fix  the  badge  which  he  had  received  to  his  gar- 
ment, as  the  manner  is,  lest  his  wife,  who  loved  him  with  the  most 

tender  affection,  seeing  this,  should  be  anxious  and  disturbed, 

but  she  found  it  while  turning  over  his  purse  and  fainted,  struck  down 
with  a  wonderful  consternation.' 

P.  120.  '  I  must  be  gone.'  Cf.  Lib.  IV.  §  2.  A  chapter  in  which 
Dietrich  rises  into  a  truly  noble  and  pathetic  strain.  '  Coming  to 
Schmalcald,'  he  says,  '  Lewis  found  his  dearest  friends,  whom  he  had 
ordered  to  meet  him  there,  not  wishing  to  depart  without  taking  leave 
of  them.' 

Then  follows  Dietrich's  only  poetic  attempt,  which  Basnage  calls  a 
^carmen  ineptum,  foolish  ballad,'  and  most  unfairly,  as  all  readers 
should  say,  if  I  had  any  hope  of  doing  justice  in  a  translation  to  this 
genial  fragment  of  an  old  dramatic  ballad,  and  its  simple  objectivity, 
as  of  a  writer  so  impressed  (like  all  true  Teutonic  poets  in  those  earnest 
days)  with  the  pathos  and  greatness  of  his  subject,  that  he  never  tries 
to  '  improve '  it  by  reflections,  and  preaching  .  at  his  readers,  but 
thinks  it  enough,  just  to  tell  his  story,  sure  that  it  will  speak  for  itself 
to  all  hearts. 

Quibus  valefaciens  cum  mcerore 

Comraisit  suis  fratribus  natos  cum  uxore: 

Matremque  deosculatos  filiali  more, 

Vix  earn  alioquitur  cordis  prce.  dolore, 

Illis  mota  viscera,  corda  tremuerunt, 

Dum  alter  in  altenus  colla  irruerunt, 

Expetentes  osculn,  qiice  vix  receperunt 

Propter  multititdlnts,  qiuB  eos  compresseruni. 

Mater  tenens  Jilium,  uxorque  maritum^ 

In  diversa pertrahunt,  et  tenent  invitum, 

Fratres  cum  militibus  velut  compeditum 

Stringunt,  nee  discedere  sinunt  expeditum. 

Erat  in  exercitu  maximus  tumultus, 

Cum  carorum  cernerent  altei'nari  vultus. 

Flebant  omnes  pariter,  senex  et  adultus, 

Turbse  cum  militibus,  cultus  et  incultus. 

Eja  !     Quis  iwn  plangeret,  cum  videret  Jlenies 

Tot  honestos  nobiles,  tam  diversas  gentes. 

Cum  Thuringis  Saxones  illuc  venientes, 

Ut  viderent  socios  suos  abscedentes. 


220  NOTES. 

Amico  luctamine  cuncti  certavere, 
Quis  eura  diutius  posset  retinere; 
Quidam  collo  bracliiis,  quidam  inhxiere 
Vestibus,  nee  poterat  cuiquam  respondere. 
Tandem  se  de  manibus  eximens  suorem 
Magnatorum  socius  et  peregrinorum, 
Admixtus  iandem  coetui  truce  signatoi^um 
Non  visuvus  amplius  terram  Thurinyorum  ! 

Surely  there  is  a  heart  of  flesh  in  the  old  monk  which,  when  warmed 
by  a  really  healthy  subject,  can  toss  aside  Scripture-parodies,  and  pro- 
fessional fcjtoic-sentiment,  and  describe  with  such  life  and  pathos,  like 
any  eye-witness,  a  scene  which  occurred,  in  fact,  two  years  before  his 
birth. 

'  And   thus  this  Prince  o/*  Peace^  he  continues,   '  mounting  his 

horse  with  many  knights,  &c about  the  end  of  the 

month  of  June,  set  forth  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  praising  him  in 
heart  and  voice,  and  weeping  and  singing  were  heard  side  by  side. 
And  close  by  followed,  with  saddest  heart,  that  most  faithful  lady  after 
her  sweetest  prince,  her  most  loving  spouse,  never,  alas !  to  behold  him 
more.  And  when  she  was  going  to  return,  the  force  of  love  and  the 
agony  of  separation  forced  her  on  with  him  one  day's  journey;  and  yet 
that  'did  not  suffice.  She  went  on,  still  unable  to  bear  the  parting, 
another  full  day's  journey At  last  they  part,  at  the  ex- 
hortations of  Rudolf  the  Cupbearer.  What  groans,  think  you,  what 
sobs,  what  struggles,  what  yearnings  of  the  heart  must  tliere  have 

been  ?    Yet  they  part,  and  go  on  their  way The  Lord 

went  forth  exulting,  as  a  giant  to  run  his  course ;  the  Lady  returned 
lamenting,  as  a  widow,  and  teai-s  were  on  her  cheeks.  Then  putting 
off"  the  garments  of  joy,  she  took  the  dress  of  widowhood.  The  mis- 
tress of  nations,  sitting  alone,  she  turned  herself  utterly  to  God — to  her 
former  good  works,  adding  better  ones.' 

Their  children  were,  '  Hermann,  who  became  Landgraf ;  a  daugh- 
ter, who  married  the  Duke  of  Brabant;  another,  who  remaining  in 
virginity,  became  a  nun  of  Aldenburg,  of  which  place  she  is  lady 
abbess  until  this  day.' 


NOTES  TO  ACT  III. 

P.  125.  '  On  the  freezing  stone.'  Cf.  Lib.  IL  §  5.  'In  the  absence 
of  her  husband  she  used  to  lay  aside  her  gay  garments,  conducted 
herself  devoutly  as  a  widow,  and  waited  for  the  return  of  her  beloved, 
passing  her  nights  in  watching*,  genuflexions,  prayers,  and  disci- 
plines.'    And  again.  Lib.  IV.  \  3,  just  quoted. 

P.  127.  '  The  will  of  God.'  Cf.  Lib.  IV.  \  6.  '  The  mother-in-law 
said  to  her  daughter-in-law,  "  Be  brave,  ray  beloved  daughter;  nor  be 
disturbed  at  that  which  hath  happened  by  divine  ordinance  to  thy 
husband,  my  son."    Whereto  she  answered  boldly,  "If  my  brother  is 


NOTES.  221 

captive,  he  can  be  freed  by  the  help  of  God  and  our  friends."  "  He  is 
dead,"  quoth  the  other.  Then  she,  clasping  her  hands  upon  her  knees, 
"  The  world  is  dead  to  me,  and  all  that  is  pleasant  in  the  world." 
Having  said  this,  suddenly  springing  up  with  tears,  she  rushed  swiftly 
through  the  whole  length  of  the  palace,  and  being  entirely  beside 
herself,  would  have  run  on  to  the  world's  end,  usque  qudque,  if  a  wall 
had  not  stopped  her;  and  others  coming  up,  led  her  away  from  the 
wall  to  which  she  had  clung.' 

P.  128.  'Yon  lion's  rage.'  Cf.  Lib.  III.  §  2.  ' There  was  a  certain 
lion  in  the  court  of  the  Prince;  and  it  came  to  pass  op  a  time,  that 
rising  from  his  bed  in  the  morning,  and  crossing  the  court  dressed  only 
in  his  gown  and  slippers,  he  met  this  lion  loose  and  raging  against 
him.  He  thereon  threatened  the  beast  with  his  raised  fist,  and  rated 
it  manfully,  till  laj'lng  aside  its  fierceness,  it  lay  down  at  the  knight's 
feet,  and  fawned  on  him,  wagging  its  tail.'     So  Dietrich. 

P.  132;  p.  138,     Cf.  Lib.  IV.  §  7. 

'  Now  shortly  after  the  news  of  Lewis's  death,  certain  vassals  of 
her  late  husband  (with  Henry,  her  brother-in-law,)  cast  her  out  of 

the  castle  and  of  all  her  possessions She  took  refuge 

that  night  in  a  certain  tavern, and  went  at  midnight 

to  the  matins  of  the  "  Minor  Brothers." And  when  no 

one  dure  give  her  lodging,  took  refuge  in  the  church 

And  when  her  little  ones  were  brought  to  her  from  the  castle,  amid 

most  bitter  frost,  she  knew  not  where  to  lay  their  heads 

She  entered  a  priest's  house,  and  fed  her  family  misei-ably  enough,  by 

E awning  what  she  had.     There  was  in  that  town  an  enemy  of  hers, 
aving  a  roomy  house Whither  she  entered  at  his 

bidding,  and  was  forced  to  dwell  with  her  whole  family  in  a  very 

narrow  space, her   host  and  hostess  heaped  her  with 

annoyances  and  spite.  She  therefore  bade  them  farewell,  saying,  "  I 
would  willingly  thank  mankind,  if  they  would  give  me  any  reason 
for  so  doing.' '     So  she  returned  to  her  former  filthy  cell.' 

P.  133.  'White  as  whales'  bone,'  (i.e.  the  tooth  of  the  narwhal;)  a 
comition  simile  in  the  older  poets. 

P.  139.  '  The  nuns  of  Kitzingen.'  Cf.  Lib.  V.  §  1.  '  After  this,  the 
noble  Lady  the  Abbess  of  Kitzingen,  Elizabeth's  aunt  according  to 
the  flesh,  brought  her  away  honourably  to  Eckembert,  Lord  Bishop 
of  Bamberg.' 

P.  141.  '  Aged  crone.'  Cf.  Lib.  IV.  where  this  whole  story  is 
related  word  for  word. 

P.  145.  'Fd  mar  this  face.'  Cf.  Lib.  V.  §  1.  'If  I  could  not,' 
said  she,  '  escape  by  any  other  means,  I  would  with  my  own  hands 
cut  off  ray  nose,  that  so  every  man  might  loath  me  when  so  foully 
disfigured.' 

P.  147.  '  Botenstain.'  Cf.  ibid.  '  The  Bishop  commanded  that  she 
should  be  taken  to  Botenstain  with  her  maids,  until  he  should  give 
her  away  in  marriage.' 

Ibid.  '  Bear  children.'  Ibid.  '  The  venerable  man,  knowing  that 
the  apostle  says,  "  I  will  that  the  younger  widows  marry,  and  bear 


222  NOTES. 

children,"  thought  of  givhig  her  in  marriage  to  Some  one — an  inten- 
tion which  she  perceived.  And  protested  on  the  strength  of  her 
"  votum  contiueutia." ' 

P.  150.  '  The  tented  field.'  All  records  of  the  worthy  Bishop  on 
which  I  have  fallen,  describe  him  as  '  virum  militia  strenuissimum,' 
— a  mighty  man  of  war. — We  read  of  him,  in  Stero  of  Altaich's 
Chronicle,  a.d.  1232,  making  war  on  the  Duke  of  Carinthia,  destroy- 
mg  many  of  his  castles,  and  laying  waste  a  ^reat  part  of  his  land ; 
and  next  year,  being  seized  by  some  bailiff  of  the  Duke's,  and  keep- 
ing that  Lent  in  durance  vile.  In  a.d.  1237,  he  was  left  b^  the  Em- 
peror as  '  vir  maguanimus  et  bellicosus,'  in  charge  ot  Austria, 
dm-ing  the  troubles  with  Duke  Frederick;  and  died  in  1240. 

P.  152.  '  Lewis's  bones.'     Cf.  Lib.  V.  §  3. 

P.  156.  '  I  thank  thee.'  Cf.  Lib.  V.  §  4-  '  What  agony  and  love 
there  was  then  in  her  heart,  He  alone  can  tell,  who  knows  the  hearts 
of  all  the  sons  of  men.  I  believe  that  her  grief  was  renewed,  and  all 
her  bones  trembled,  when  she  saw  the  bones  of  her  beloved  separated 
one  from  another  (the  corpse  had  been  dug  up  at  Otranto,  and  boiled). 
But  though  absorbed  in  so  great  a  woe,  at  last  she  remembered  God, 
and  recovering  her  spurit,  said  '—Her  words  I  have  paraphrased  as 
closely  as  possible.) 

P.  157.  *  The  close  hard  by.'     Cf.  Lib.  V.  §  4. 


NOTES   TO    ACT  IV. 

P.  158,  '  Your  self-imposed  vows.'  Cf.  Lib.  IV.  §  1.  'On  Good 
Friday,  when  the  altars  were  exhibited  bare  in  remembrance  of  the 
Saviour  who  hung  bare  on  the  cross  for  us,  she  went  into  a  certain 
chapel,  and  in  the  presence  of  Master  Conrad,  and  certain  Franciscan 
brothers,  laying  her  holy  hands  on  the  bare  altar,  renounced  her  own 
will,  her  parents,  children,  relations, "  Et  omnibus  hujus  modi  pompis," 
all  pomps  of  this  kind  (a  misprint,  one  hopes,  for  mundi),  in  imitation 
of  Christ;  and  "oranino  se  exuit  et  nudavit,"  stripped  herself  utterly 
naked,  to  follow  Him  naked,  in  the  steps  of  poverty.' 

P.  162.  '  All  worldly  goods.'     A  paraphrase  of  her  own  words. 

P.  163.  '  Thine  own  needs.'  '  But  when  she  was  going  to  renounce 
her  possessions  also,  the  prudent  Conrad  stopped  her.'  The  reflec- 
tions which  follow  are  Dietrich's  own. 

P.  164.  '  The  likeness  of  the  fiend,'  &c.  I  have  put  this  daring 
expression  into  Conrad's  mouth,  as  the  ideal  outcome  of  the  teaching 
of  Conrad's  age  on  this  point— and  of  much  teaching  also,  which 
miscalls  itself  protestant,  in  our  own  age.  The  doctrine  is  not,  of 
course,  to  be  found  totidein  verbis  in  the  formularies  of  any  sect— yet 
ahnost  all  sects  preach  it,  and  quote  Scripture  for  it  as  boldly  as  Con- 
rad—the Romish  Samt  alone  carries  it  honestly  out  into  practice. 


NOTES.  223 

p.  166.  *  With  pine  boughs.'  Cf.  Lib.  VI.  §  2.  '  Entering  a  certain 
desolate  court,  she  betook,  herself,  "sub  gradu  cujusdam  camiuatai," 
to  the  projection  of  a  certain  furnace,  where  she  roofed  herself  in 

Avith  boughs In  the  mean  time,  in  the  town  of  Mar- 

purg,  was  built  for  her  a  humble  cottage  of  clay  and  timber.' 

Ibid.  '  Count  Pama.'     Cf.  Lib.  VI.  §  6. 

P.  168.  '  Isentrudis  and  Guta.'  Cf.  Lib.  VIL  §  4.  '  Now  Conrad, 
as  a  prudent  man,  perceiving  that  this  disciple  of  Christ  wished  to 
arrive  at  tlie  highest  pitch  of  perfection,  studied  to  remove  all  which 

he   thought   would   retard  her, and  therefore  drove 

from  her  all  those  of  her  former  household  in  whom  she  used  to  solace 
or  delight  herself.  Thus  the  holy  priest  deprived  this  servant  of  God 
of  all  society,  that  so  the  constancy  of  her  obedience  might  become 
known,  and  occasion  might  be  given  to  her  for  clinging  to  God 
alone.' 

P.  168.  '  A  leprous  boy.'     Cf.  Lib.  VL  §  8. 

She  had  several  of  these  prot^gds,  successively,  whose  diseases  are 
too  disgusting  to  be  specified,  on  whom  she  lavished  the  most  menial 
cares.  All  the  other  stories  of  her  benevolence  which  occur  in  these 
two  pages  are  related  by  Dietrich. 

P.  169.  *  Mighty  to  save.'  Cf.  Lib.  VIL  §  7.  Where  we  read, 
amongst  other  matters,  how  the  objects  of  her  prayers  used  to  become 
while  she  was  speaking  so  intensely  hot,  that  they  not  only  smoked, 
and  nearly  melted,  but  burnt  the  fingers  of  those' who  touched  them: 
from  whence  Dietrich  bids  us  '  learn  with  what  an  ardour  of  charity 
she  used  to  burn,  who  would  dr^'  up  with  her  heat  the  flow  of  wox'ldly 
desire,  and  inflame  to  the  love  of  eternity.'  , 

P.  171.  '  Lands  and  titles.'     Cf.  Lib.  V.  H  7,  8. 

P.  172.  '  Spinning  wool.'  Cf.  Lib.  VI.  §  6,  '  And  crossing  himself 
for  wonder,  the  Count  Pama  cried  out  and  said,  "  Was  it  ever  seen  to 
this  day  that  a  king's  daughter  should  spin  wool?  "  "  All  his  messages 
from  her  father,"  says  Dietrich,  "  were  of  no  avail."  ' 

P.  178.  «  To  do  her  penance.'  Cf.  Lib.  VIL  §  4.  '  Now,  he  had 
placed  with  her  certain  austere  women,  from  whom  she  endured  much 
oppression  patiently  for  Christ's  sake,  who,  watching  her  rigidly,  fre- 
quently reported  her  to  her  master  for  having  transgressed  her  obe- 
dience, in  giving  something  to  the  poor,  or  begging  others  to  give. 
And  when  thus  accused,  she  often  received  many  blows  from  her 
master,  insomuch  that  he  used  to  strike  her  in  the  face,  which  she 
earnestly  desired  to  endure  patiently  in  memory  of  the  stripes  of  the 
Lord.' 

P.  180.  '  That  she  dared  not.'  Cf.  Lib.  VII.  §  4.  '  When  her  most 
intimate  friends,  Isentrudis  and  Guta,'  (whom  another  account  de- 
scribes as  in  great  poverty,)  'came  to  see  heV,  she  dared  not  give 
them  any  thing,  even  for  food,  nor,  without  special  license,  salute 
them.' 

Ibid.  '  To  bear  withm  us.'  '  Seeing  in  the  church  of  certain 
monks  who  "  professed  poverty,"  images  sumptuously  gilt,  she  said  to 
about  twenty-four  of  them,  "  You  had  better  to  have  spent  this  monev 


224  NOTES. 

on  your  own  food  and  clothes,  for  we  ought  to  have  the  reality  of  these 
images  written  in  our  hearts."  And  if  any  one  mentioned  a  beautiful 
image  before  her,  she  used  to  say,  "  I  have  no  need  of  such  an  image. 
I  carry  the  thing  itself  in  my  bosom."  ' 

P.  180.    '  Even  on  her  bed.'    Cf.  Lib.  VI.  ^  5,  6. 

P.  182.  '  My  mother  rose.'  Cf.  Lib.  VL  ^  8.  '  Her  mother,  who 
had  been  long  ago'  (when  Elizabeth  was  nine  years  old)  'miserably 
slain  by  the  Hungarians,  appeared  to  her  in  her  dreams  upon  her 
knees,  and  said,  "  My  beloved  child  !  pray  for  the  agonies  which  I  suf- 
fer; for  thou  canst."  Elizabeth  waking,  prayed  earnestly,  and  falling 
asleep  again,  her  mother  appeared  to  her  and  told  her  tliat  she  was 
freed,  and  that  Elizabeth's  prayers  would  hereafter  benefit  all  who  in- 
voked her.'  Of  the  causes  of  her  mother's  murder,  the  less  that  is 
said,  the  better — but  the  prudent  letter  which  the  Bishop  of  Grun  sent 
back  when  asked  to  join  in  the  conspiracy  against  her,  is  worthy 
notice.  '  Reginam  occldere  nolite  timere  honum  est.  Si  omnes  consentiunt 
ego  non  cwitvadico.^  To  be  read  as  a  full  consent,  or  as  a  flat  refusal, 
according  to  the  success  of  the  plot. 

P.  184.  '  Any  living  soul.'  Dietrich  has  much  on  this  point,  headed, 
'  How  master  Conrad  exercised  Saint  Elizabeth  in  the  breaking  of  her 

own  will And  at  last  forbad  her  entirely  to  give  alms; 

whereon  she  employed  herself  in  washing  lepers  and  other  infirm  folk. 
In  the  mean  time  she  was  languishing,  and  inwardly  tortured  with 
emotions  of  compassion.' 

I  may  here  say,  that  in  representing  Elizabeth's  early  death  as  ac- 
celerated by  a  '  broken  heart,'  I  have,  I  believe,  told  the  truth,  though 
I  find  no  hint  of  any  thing  of  the  kind  in  Dietrich.  The  religious  public 
of  a  petty  town  in  the  13th  century,  round  the  death-bed  of  a  royal 
saint,  would  of  course  treasure  up 'most  carefully  all  incidents  con- 
nected with  her  latter  days ;  but  they  would  hardly  record  sentiments 
or  expressions  which  might  seem  to  their  notions  to  derogate  in  any 
way  from  her  saintship.  Dietrich,  too,  looking  at  the  subject  as  a 
monk  and  not  as  a  man,  would  consider  it  just  as  much  his  duty  to 
make  her  death-scene  rapturous,  as  to  make  both  her  life  and  her 
tomb  miraculous.  I  have  composed  these  last  scenes  in  the  belief  that 
Elizabeth  and  all  her  compeers  will  be  recognized  as  real  saints,  in 
proportion  as  they  are  felt  to  have  been  real  men  and  women. 

P.  186.  '  Eructate  sweet  doctrine.'  The  expressions  are  Dietrich's 
own. 

Ibid.    '  In  her  coflin  yet.'     Cf.  Lib.  VIII.  §  1. 

P.  187.    *  So  she  said.'    Cf.  ibid. 

Ibid.  '  The  poor  of  Christ.'  '  She  begged  her  master  to  distribute 
all  to  the  poor,  except  a  worthless  tunic  in  which  she  wished  to  be 
buried.  She  made  no  will :  she  would  have  no  heir  besides  Christ,* 
(i.  e.  the  poor.) 

P.  188.     '  Martha  and  their  brother,'  &c. 

I  have  compressed  the  events  of  several  days  into  one  in  this  scene. 
I  give  Dietrich's  own  account,  omitting  his  i-eflections. 

*  When  she  had  been  ill  twelve  days  and  more,  one  of  her  maids 


NOTES.  225 

sitting  by  her  side,  heard  in  her  throat  a  very  sweet  sound, 

and  sayinp:,  "  Oh,  my  mistress,  how  sweetly  thou  didst  sing!  "  she  an- 
swered, "  I  tell  thee^  I  heard  a  little  bird  between  me  and  the  wall  sing 
merrily;  who  with  his  sweet  song  so  stirred  me  up,  that  I  could  not 
but  sing  myself."  ' 

Again.  §3.  '  The  last  day  she  remained  till  evening  most  devout, 
having  been  made  partaker  of  the  celestial  table,  and  inebriated  with 
that  most  pure  blood  of  life,  which  is  Christ.  The  word  of  truth  was 
continually  on  her  lips,  and  opening  her  mouth  of  wisdom,  she  spake 
of  the  best  things  which  she  had  heard  in  sermons;  eructating  from 
her  heart  good  words,  and  the  law  of  clemency  was  heard  on  her 
tongue.  She  told  from  the  abundance  of  her  heart  how  the  Lord  Jesus 
condescended  to  console  Mary  and  Martha,  at  the  raising  again  of  their 
brother  Lazarus,  and  then,  speaking  of  His  weeping  with  them  over 
the  dead,  she  eructated  the  memory  of  the  abundance  of  the  Lord's 
sweetness,  affectu  et  eflfectu,  (in  feeling  and  expression?)  Certain 
religious  persons  who  were  present,  hearing  these  words,  fired  with 
devotion,  by  the  grace  which  filled  her  lips,  melted  into  tears.  To 
whom  the  saint  of  God,  now  dying,  recalled  the  sweet  words  of  her 
Lord  as  he  went  to  death,  saying,  "  Daughters  of  Jerusalem,"  &c. 
Having  said  this  she  was  silent.  A  wonderful  thing.  Then  most 
sweet  voices  were  heard  in  her  throat,  without  any  motion  of  her  lips; 
and  she  asked  of  those  round,  "  Did  ye  not  hear  some  singing  with  me  V  " 
"  Whereon  none  of  the  foithful  are  allowed  to  doubt,"  says  Dietrich, 
"  when  she  herself  heard  the  harmony  of  the  heavenly  hosts,  &c.  &c.'* 

From  that  time  to  twilight  she  lay,  as  if  exultant  and 

jubilant,  showing  signs  of  remarkable  devotion,  till  the  crowing  of  the 
cock.  Then,  as  if  secure  in  the  Lord,  she  said  to  the  bystanders, 
"  What  should  we  do,  if  the  fiend  showed  himself  to  us?  "  And  shoi-tly 
afterwards  with  a  loud  and  clear  voice,  "  Fly !  fly !  "  as  if  repelling  the 
daemon.' 

'  At  the  cock-crow  she  said,  "  Here  is  the  hoiir,  in  which  the  Virgin 

brought  forth  the  child  Jesus  and  laid  him  in  a  manger 

Let  us  talk  of  him,  and  of  that  new  star  which  he  created  by  his 
omnipotence,  which  never  before  was  seen."  "  For  these,"  (says  Mon- 
tanus  in  her  name,)  "  are  the  venerable  mysteries  of  our  faith,  our  rich- 
est blessings,  our  fairest  ornaments :  in  these  all  the  reason  of  our  hope 
flourishes,  fi\ith  grows,  charity  burns."  ' 

The  novelty  of  the  style  and  matter  will,  I  hope,  excuse  its  prolixity 
with  most  readers.  If  not,  I  have  still  my  reasofls  for  inserting  the 
gi'eater  part  of  this  chapter. 

P.  191.  '  I  demand  it.'  How  far  I  am  justified  in  putting  such  fears 
into  her  mouth,  the  reader  may  judge.  Cf.  Lib.  VHI.  §  5.  '  The 
devotion  of  the  people  demanding  it,  her  body  was  left  unburied  till 
the  fourth  day,  in  the  midst  of  a  multitude.' 

'  The  flesh/  says  Dietrich,  '  had  the  tenderness  of  a  living  body, 
and  was  easily  moved  hither  and  thither,  at  the  will  of  those  wfio 

handled  it And  many,  sublime  in  the  valour  of  their 

faith,  tore  off  the  hair  of  her  head,  ancl  the  nails  of  her  fingers,  ("  even 
the  tips  of  her  ears,  et  mamillarum  papillas,''^  says  untranslatably  Mon- 
tanus  of  Spire,)  and  kept  them  as  relics.'  The  reference  relatinjj  to 
the  pictures  of  her  disciplines,  and  the  eflfect  which  they  produced  on 
the  crowd,  I  have  unfortunately  lost. 

15 


226  NOTES. 

p.  192.  '  And  yet  no  pain.'  Cf.  Lib.  Vm.  §  4.  '  She  said,  "  Though 
I  am  weak,  I  feel  no  disease  or  pain,"  and  so  through  that  whole  day 
and  night,  as  hath  been  said,  having  been  elevated  witli  most  holy  af- 
fections of  mind  towards  God,  and  inflamed  in  spirit  with  most  divine 
utterances  and  conversations,  at  length  she  rested  from  jubilating,  and 
inclining  her  head  as  if  falling  into  a  sweet  sleep,  expired.' 


NOTES  TO  ACT  V. 

P.  193.  '  Canonization.'  Cf.  Lib.  VITL  §  10.  If  I  have  in  the  la.st 
scene  been  guilty  of  a  small  anachronism,  I  have  in  this  been  guilty 
of  a  great  one.  Conrad  was  of  course  a  prime  means  of.  Elizabeth's 
canonization,  and,  as  Dieti'ich,  and  his  own  '  Letter  to  Pope  Gregory 
the  Ninth '  show,  collected,  and  pressed  on  the  notice  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Maintz,  the  miraculous  statements  necessary  for  that  honour. 
But  he  died  two  years  before  the  actual  publication  of  her  canoniza- 
tion. It  appeared  to  me,  that  by  following  the  exact  facts,  I  must 
either  lose  sight  of  the  final  triumph,  which  connects  my  heroine  for- 
ever with  Germany  and  all  Romish  Christendom,  and  is  the  very  cul- 
mination of  the  whole  story,  or  relinquish  my  only  opportunity  of 
doing  Conrad  justice,  by  exhibiting  the  remaining  side  of  his  char- 
acter. 

I  am  afraid  that  I  have  erred,  and  that  the  most  strict  historic  truth 
would  have  coincided,  as  usiial,  with  the  highest  artistic  effect,  while 
it  would  have  only  corroborated  the  moral  of  my  poem,  supposing  that 
there  is  one.  But  I  was  fettered  by  the  poverty  of  my  own  imagina- 
tion, and  '  do  manus  lectoribus.' 

P.  194.  *  Third  Minors.'  The  order  of  the  Third  Elinors  of  St. 
Francis  of  Assisi,  was  an  invention  of  the  comprehensive  mind  of  that 
truly  groat  man,  by  which  '  worldlings '  were  enabled  to  participate 
in  the  spiritual  advantages  of  the  Franciscan  rule  and  discipline,  with 
out  neglect  or  suspension  of  their  civic  and  family  duties.  But  it  was 
an  institution  too  enlightened  for  its  age;  and  family  and  civic  ties 
were  destined  for  a  far  nobler  consecration.  The  order  was  perse- 
cuted, and  all  but  exterminated,  by  the  jealousy  of  the  Regular  Monks, 
not,  it  seems,  without  papal  connivance.  Within  a  few  years  after  its 
foundation  it  numbered  amongst  its  members  the  noblest  knights  and 
ladies  of  Christendom,  St.  Louis  of  France  among  the  number. 

P.  195.  '  Lest  he  fall.'  Cf.  Fleury  Eccl  Annals,  in  Anno  1233. 
'  Doctor  Conrad  of  Marpurg,  the  King  Henry,  son  of  the  Emperor 
Frederick,  &c.,  called  an  assembly  at  Mayence  to  examine  persons 
accused  as  heretics.  Among  whom  the  Count  of  Saym  demanded  a 
delay  to  justify  himself.  As  for  the  others  who  did  not  appear,  Con- 
rad gave  the  cross  to  those  who  would  take  up  arms  against  them.  At 
which  these  supposed  heretics  were  so  irritated,  that  on  his  return  they 
lay  in  wait  for  him  near  Marpurg,  and  killed  him  with  brother  Gerard 
of  the  order  of  Minors,  a  holy  man.  Conrad  was  accused  of  precipi- 
tation in  his  judgments,  and  of  having  burned  trop  Uyerement  under 


NOTES.  227 

pretext  of  heresy,  many  noble  and  not  noble,  monks,  nuns,  burghers, 
and  peasants.  For  ho  had  them  executed  the  same  day  that  they 
were  accused,  without  allowing  any  appeal.' 

P.  197.  •  The  Kaiser.'  Cf.  Lib.  VIII.  §  12,  for  a  list  of  the  worthies 
present. 

P.  198.  *  A  Zingar  wizard.'  Cf.  Lib.  L  §  1.  The  Magician's  name 
was  Klingsohr.  He  has  been  introduced  by  Novalis  into  his  novel  of 
Heinrich  Von  Ofterdinaen,  as  present  at  the  famous  contest  of  the 
Minnesingers  on  the  Wartburg.     Here  is  Dietrich's  account: — 

'  There  were  in  those  days  in  the  Landgrave's  court  six  knights, 
nobles,  &c.,  &c.,  "  cantilenarum  confectores  summi,"  song-wrights  of 
the  highest  excellence,'  (either  one  of  them  or  Klingsohr  himself,  was 
the  author  of  the  Nibelungen-Iied,  and  the  Helden-buch.) 

'  Now  there  dwelt  then  in  the  parts  of  Hungary,  in  the  land  which 
is  called  the  "  Seven  Castles,"  a  certain  rich  nobleman,  worth  3000 
marks  a  ye;ir,  a  philosopher,  practised  from  his  youth  in  secular  litera- 
ture, but  nevertheless  learned  in  the  sciences  of  Necromancy  and 
Astronomy.  This  master  Klingsohr  was  sent  for  by  the  Prince  to 
judge  between  the  songs  of  these  knights  aforesaid.  Who,  before  he 
was  introduced  to  the  Landgrave,  sitting  one  night  in  Eisenach,  in  the 
court  of  his  lodging,  looked'  very  earnestly  upon  the  stars ;  and  being 
asked  if  he  had  perceived  any  secrets, ''  Know  that  this  niglit  is  born 
a  daughter  to  the  King  of  'Hungary,  who  shall  be  called  Elizabeth, 
and  shall  be  a  saint,  and  shall  be'  given  to  wife  to  the  son  of  this 
prince ;  in  the  fame  of  whose  sanctity  all  the  earth  shall  exult  and 
be  exalted." 

'  See ! — He  who  by  Balaam  the  wizard  foretold  the  mystery  of  his 
own  incarnation,  himself  foretold  by  this  wizard  the  name  and  birth 
of  his  fore-chosen  handmaid  J)lizabeth.'  (A  comparison  of  which 
Basnage  says,  that  he  cannot  deny  it  to  be  intolerable.)  I  am  not 
bound  to  explain  all  strange  stories,  but  considering  who  and  whence 
Klingsohr  was,  and  the  fact  that  the  treaty  of  espousals  took  place  a 
few  months  afterwards,  '  adhuc  sugens  ubera  desponsata  est! '  it  is 
not  impossible  that  King  Andrew  and  his  sage  vassal  may  have  had 
some  previous  conversation  on  the  destination  of  the  unborn  princess. 

P.  199.  '  A  robe.'  Cf.  Lib.  IL  §  9,  for  this  story;  on  which  Dietrich 
observes,  '  Thus  did  her  Heavenly  Father  clothe' his  lily  Elizabeth,  as 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory  could  not  do.' 

Ibid.  '  The  incarnate  Son.'  This  story  is  told,  I  think,  by  Surias, 
and  has  been  introduced,  with  an  illustration  by  a  German  artist  of 
the  highest  note,  into  a  modern  prose  biography  of  this  saint.  (I  have 
omitted  much  more  of  the  same  kind.) 

Ibid.  '  Sainthood's  palm.'  Cf.  Lib.  VHL  ^  7,  8,  9.  *  While  to 
declare  the  merits  of  his  handmaid  Elizabeth,  in  the  place  where  her 
body  rested,  Almighty  God  was  thus  multiplying  the  badges  of  her 
virtues,  {i.  e.  miracles,)  two  altars  were  built  in  her  praise  in  that 
chapel,  which  while  Siegfried,  Archbishop  of  Mayence,  was  consecrat- 
ing, as  he  had  evidently  been  commanded  in  a  vision,  at  the  pravers 
of  that  devout  man  master  Conrad,  preacher  of  the  word  of  (Jod, 
the  said  preacher  commanded  all  who  had  i-eceived  any  grace  of 
healing  from  the  merits  of  Elizabeth,  to  appear  next  day  before  tho 


228  NOTES. 

Archbishop    and    faithfully    prove    their    assertions   by    witnesses. 


Then  the  Most  Holy  Father,  Pope  Gregory  the  Ninth, 
having  made  diligent  examination'of  the  miracles  transmitted  to  him, 
trusting  at  the  same  time  to  mature  and  prudent  counsels,  and  the 
Holy  Spirit's  providence,  above  all,  so  ordaining,  his  clemency  dis- 
posing, and  his  grace  admonishing,  decreed  that  the  Blessed  Elizabeth 
was  to  be  written  among  the  catalogue  of  the  saints  on  earth,  since  in 
heaven  she  rejoices  as  written  in  the  Book  of  Life." 

Then  follow  four  chapters,  headed  severally. 

§  9.  'Of  the  solemn  canonization  of  the  Blessed  Elizabeth.' 

§  10.  '  Of  the  translation  of  the  Blessed  Elizabeth,  (and  how  the 
corpse  when  exposed  diffused  round  a  miraculous  fragrance.') 

(j  11.  '  Of  the  desire  of  the  people  to  see,  embrace,  and  kiss  (says 
Dietrich)  those  sacred  bones,  the  organs  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  from 
which  flowed  so  many  graces  of  sanctities.' 

§  12.  '  Of  the  sublime  persons  who  were  present,  and  their  obla- 
tions.' 

§  13.    'A  consideration  of  the  divine  mercy  about  this  matter.' 

'  Behold !  she  who  despised  the  glory  of  the  world,  and  refused  the 
company  of  magnates,  is  magnificently  honoured  by  the  dignity  of  the 
Pontifical  office,  and  the  reverent  care  of  Imperial  Majesty.  And 
she  who,  seeking  the  lowest  place  in  this  life,  sat  on  the  ground,  slept 
in  the  dust,  is  now  raised  on  high,  by  the  hands  of  Kings  and  Princes. 

.  : It  transcends  all  heights  of  temporal  glory,  to  have 

been  made  like  the  saints  in  glory.  For  all  the  rich  among  the  people 
"  vultum  ejus  deprecantur,"  (pray  for  the  light  of  her  countenance,) 
and  kings  and  princes  ofier  gifts,  magnates  adore  her,  and  all  nations 
serve  her.  Nor  without  reason,  for  "  she  sold  all  and  gave  to  the 
poor,"  and  counting  all  her  substance  for  nothing,  bought  for  herself 
this  priceless  pearl  of  eternity.'  One  would  be  sorry  to  believe  that 
such  utterly  mean  considerations  of  selfish  vanity,  expressing  as  they 
do  an  extreme  respect  for  the  very  pomps  and  vanities  which  they 
praise  the  saints  for  despising,  really  went  to  the  making  of  any  saint, 
Romish  or  other. 

(j  14.  '  Of  the  sacred  oil  which  flowed  from  the  bones  of  Elizabeth.' 
I  subjoin  the  '  Epilogus.' 

'  Moreover,  even  as  the  elect  handmaid  of  God,  the  most  blessed 
Elizabeth,  had  shone  during  her  life  with  wonderful  signs  of  her 
virtues,  so  since  the  day  of  her  blessed  departure  up  to  the  present 
time,  she  is  resplendent  through  the  various  quarters  of  the  world 
with  illustrious  prodigies  of  miracles,  the  Divine  power  glorifying  her. 
For  to  the  blind,  dumb,  deaf,  and  lame,  dropsical,  possessed,  and 
leprous,  shipwrecked,  and  captives,  "  ipsius  meritis,"  as  a  reward  for 
her  holy  deeds,  remedies  are  conferred.  Also,  to  all  diseases,  neces- 
sities, and  dangers,  assistance  is  given.  And,  moreover,  by  the  many 
corpses,  " /jufa  sec?eani,"  say  sixteen,  wonderfully  raised  to  life  by  her 
self,  becomes  known  to  the  faithful  the  magnificence  of  the  virtues 
of  the  Most  High  glorifying  His  saint.  To  that  Most  High  be  glory 
and  honour  forever.    Amen.' 

So  ends  Dietrich's  story.  The  reader  has  by  this  time,  I  hope,  read 
enough  to  justify,  in  every  sense,  Conrad's  '  A  corpse  or  two  was 
raised,  they  say,  last  week,'  and  much  more  of  the  funeral  oration 
which  I  have  put  into  his  mouth. 


NOTES.  229 

p.  200.  '  Gallant  gentleman.'     Cf.  Lib.  VIII.  §  6. 

P.  202.  '  Took  the  crown.'     Cf.  Lib.  VIIL  §  12. 

Ibid.  The  '  olive '  and  the  '  pearl '  are  Dietrich's  own  figures. 
The  others  follow  the  method  of  scriptnral  Interpretation,  usual  in  the 
writers  of  that  age. 

P.  212.  'Domini  canes,'  'The  Lord's  hounds,'  a  punning  sobriquet 
of  the  Dominican  inquisitors,  in  allusion  to  their  profession. 

P.  214.  '  Folquet,'  Bishop  of  Toulouse,  who  had  been  in  early  life 
a  Troubadour,  distinguished  himself  by  his  ferocity  and  perfidy  in 
the  crusade  against  the  Albigenses  and  Troubadours,  especially  at 
the  surrender  of  Toulouse,  in  company  with  his  chief  abettor,' the 
infamous  Simon  de  Montfort.  He  died  a.d.  1231.  See  Sismondi, 
Lit.  of  Southern  Europe,  Cap.  VI. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE   SANDS   OF   DEE. 

I. 

"  O  Mar  J,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Ajid  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee  ; " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi'  foam. 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

n. 
The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 
The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land — 
And  never  home  came  she. 


234  THE    SANDS    OF    DEE. 

III. 

"  Oh ! "  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
"Was  never  salmon  yet  that  slipne  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

IV. 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolUng  foam, 
*  The  cruel  crawling  foam. 
The  cruel  hungry  foam 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee  ! 


THE   THREE  FISHERS. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  West, 
Out  into  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down ; 

Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  the  best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the  town ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

And  there  's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbour  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  tower. 
And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down. 
They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  night  rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown  ! 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep. 
And  the  harbour  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down. 

And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town  ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 

And  the  sooner  it 's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep  — 

And  good-bye  to  thj?  bar  and  its  moaning. 


WEARILY   STRETCHES   THE   SAND. 


Wearily  stretches  the  sand  to  the  surge,  and  the  surge 

to  the  cloudland ; 
Wearily  onward  I  ride,  watching  the  wild  wave  alone. 
Not  as  of  old,  like  Homeric  Achilles,  Kvdec  yaiuv, 
Joyous  knight-errant  of    God,  thirsting  for  labour  and 

strife ; 
No  more  on  magical  steed  borne  free  through  the  regions 

of  ether, 
But,  like  the  hack  which  I  ride,  selling  my  sinew  for 

gold. 
Fruit-bearing  autunm  is  gone ;  let  the  sad  quiet  winter 

hang  o'er  me  — 
What  were  the  spring  to  a  soul  laden  with  sorrow  and 

shame  ? 
Green  leaves  would  fret  me  with  beauty ;  my  heart  has 

no  time  to  bepraise  them  ; 
Gray  rock,  bough,  surge,  cloud  —  these  wake  no   yearn- 
ing within. 
Sing  not,  thou  sky-lark  above  !  even  angels  pass  hushed 

by  the  weeper ! 
Scream  on,  ye  sea-fowl !  my  heart  echoes  your  desolate  cry. 


TTEARILT    STRETCHES    THE    SAND.  237 

Sweep  the  dry  sand  on,  thou  wild  wind,  to  drift  o'er  the 

shell  and  the  sea-weed  ; 
Sea-weed  and  shell,  hke  my  dreams,  swept  down   the 

pitiless  tide. 
Just  is  the  wave  which  uptore  us ;  'tis  nature's  own  law 

which  condemns  us ; 
Woe  to  the  weak  who,  in  pride,  build  on  the  faith  of  the 

sand  ! 
Joy  to  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  he  trusts  to  the  might  of 

the  rock-clefts ; 
Deeply  he  mines,  and  in  peace  feeds  on  the  weg-lth  of 

the  stone. 


SAPPHO. 

She  lay  among  the  myrtles  on  the  cliff ; 

Above  her  glared  the  noon ;  beneath,  the  sea. 

Upon  the  white  horizon  Atho's  peak 

Weltered  in  burning  haze  ;  all  airs  were  dead  ; 

The  cicale  slept  among  the  tamarisk's  hair ; 

The  birds  sat  dumb  and  drooping.     Far  below 

The  lazy  sea-weed  glistened  in  the  sun ; 

The  lazy  sea-fowl  dried  their  steaming  win^s  ; 

The  lazy  swell  crept  whispering  up  the  ledge, 

And  sank  again.     Great  Pan  was  laid  to  rest ; 

And  Mother  Earth  watched  by  him  as  he  slept, 

And  hushed  her  myriad  children  for  awhile. 

She  lay  among  the  myrtles  on  the  cliff; 

And  sighed  for  sleep,  for  sleep  that  would  not  hear, 

But  left  her  tossing  still ;  for  night  and  day 

A  mighty  hunger  yearned  within  her  heart, 

Till  all  her  veins  ran  fever,  and  her  cheek. 

Her  long  t^in  hands,  and  ivory-channel'd  feet, 

Were  wasted  with  the  wasting  of  her  soul. 

Then  peevishly  she  flung  her  on  her  face. 

And  hid  her  eyeballs  from  the  blinding  glare, 


SAPPHO.  239 

And  fingered  at  the  grass,  and  tried  to  cool 
Her  crisp  hot  lips  against  the  crisp  hot  sward  : 
And  then  she  raised  her  head,  and  upward  cast 
"Wild  looks  from  homeless  eyes,  whose  liquid  light 
Gleamed  out  between  deep  folds  of  blue-black  hair, 
As  gleam  twin  lakes  between  the  purple  peaks 
Of  deep  Parnassus,  at  the  mournful  moon.  • 
Beside  her  lay  her  lyre.     She  snatched  the  shell. 
And  waked  wild  music  from  its  silver  strings ; 
Then  tossed  it  sadly  by. — "  Ah,  hush  !  "  she  cries, 
"  Dead  offspring  of  the  tortoise  and  the  mine ! 
Why  mock  my  discords  with  thine  harmonies  ? 
Although  a  thrice-Olympian  lot  be  thine, 
Only  to  echo  back  in  every  tone. 
The  moods  of  nobler  natures  than  thine  own." 


A  MYTH. 

I. 
A  FLOATING,  a  floating 
Across  the  sleeping  sea. 
All  night  I  heard  a  singing  bird 
Upon  the  topmast  tree. 

II. 
"  Oh  came  you  from  the  isles  of  Greece 
Or  from  the  banks  of  Seine  ; 
Or  off  some  tree  in  forests  free, 
Which  fringe  the  western  main  ?  " 

III. 
"  I  came  not  off  the  old  world 
Nor  yet  from  off  the  new  — 
But  I  am  one  of  the  birds  of  God 
Which  sing  the  whole  night  through." 

IV. 

"  Oh  sing  and  wake  the  dawning  — 
Oh  whistle  for  the  wind ; 
The  night  is  long,  the  current  strong, 
My  boat  it  lags  behind." 

V. 

"  The  current  sweeps  the  old  world , 
The  current  sweeps  the  new ; 
The  wind  wUl  blow,  the  dawn  will  glow, 
Ere  thou  hast  sailed  them  through." 


THE   ANGLER'S   QUESTIONS. 

I  CANNOT  tell  what  you  say,  green  leaves, 
I  cannot  tell  what  you  say  : 
But  I  know  that  there  is  a  spirit  in  you, 
And  a  word  in  you  this  day. 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say,  rosy  rocks, 
I  cannot  tell  what  you  say : 
But  I  know  that  there  is  a  spirit  in  you, 
And  a  word  in  you  this  day. 

I  cannot  tell  what  you  say,  brown  streams, 
I  cannot  tell  what  you  say  : 
But  I  know  that  in  you  too  a  spirit  doth  live, 
And  a  word  doth  speak  this  day. 


THE  WORD'S  ANSWER. 

"  Oh  green  is  the  colour  of  faith  and  truth, 
And  rose  the  colour  of  love  and  youth, 
And  brown  of  the  fruitful  clay. 
Sweet  Earth  is  faithful,  and  fruitful,  and  young, 
And  her  bridal  day  shall,  come  ere  long. 
And  you  shall  know  what  the  rocks  and  the  streams 
And  the  whispering  woodlands  say." 
16 


THE  DEAD  CHURCH. 

I. 

Wild,  wild  wind,  wilt  thou  never  cease  thy  sighing? 

Dark,  dark  night,  wilt  thou  never  wear  away  ? 

Cold,  cold  church,  in  thy  death  sleep  lying. 

Thy  Lent  is  past,  thy  Passion  here,  but  not  thine  Easter- 
day. 

II. 

Peace,  faint  heart,  though  the  night  be  dark  and  sigh- 
ing; 

Rest,  fair  corpse,  where  thy  Lord  himself  hath  lain. 

"Weep,  dear  Lord,  where  thy  bride  is  lying ; 

Thy  tears  shall  wake  her  frozen  limbs  to  life  and  health 
again. 


A  PARABLE  FROM  LIEBIG. 

I. 
The  church  bells  were  ringing,  the  devil  sat  singing 
On  the  stump  of  a  rotting  old  tree ; 
"  Oh  faith,  it  grows  cold,  and  the  creeds  they  grow  old, 
And  the  world  is  nigh  ready  for  me." 

-  II. 

The  bells  went  on  ringing,  a  spirit  came  singing. 
And  smiled  as  he  crumbled  the  tree ; 
"  Yon  wood  does  but  perish  new  seedlings  to  cherish, 
And  the  world  is  too  live  yet  for  thee." 


THERE   SITS  A  BIRD. 

There  sits  a  bird  on  every  tree, 

With  a  lieigli-ho ! 
There  sits  a  bird  on  every  tree, 
Sings  to  his  love,  as  I  to  thee. 

With  a  heigh-ho,  and  a  heigh-ho ! 

Young  maids  must  marry. 

There  grows  a  flower  on  every  bough. 

With  a  heigh-ho  ! 
There  grows  a  flower  on  every  bough, 
Its  gay  leaves  kiss — I'll  show  you  how  : 

With  a  heigh-ho,  and  a  heigh-ho  ! 

Young  maids  must  marry. 

The  sun 's  a  bridegroom,  earth  a  bride  ; 

With  a  heigh-ho ! 
The  sun  's  a  bridegroom,  earth  a  bride ; 
They  court  from  morn  to  eventide  : 
The  earth  shall  pass,  but  love  abide. 

With  a  heigh-ho,  and  a  heigh-ho ! 

Young  maids  must  marry. 


TWIN    STARS   ALOFT. 

Twin  stars,  aloft  in  ether  clear, 
Around  each  other  roll  alway. 

Within  one  common  atmosphere 
Of  their  own  mutual  light  and  day. 

And  myriad  happy  eyes  are  bent 
Upon  their  changeless  love  alway ; 

As  strengthened  by  their  one  intent. 
They  pour  the  flood  of  life  and  day. 

So  we  through  this  world's  waning  night, 
Shall,  hand  in  hand,  pui-sue  our  way ; 

Shed  round  us  order,  love,  and  light, 
And  shine  unto  the  perfect  day. 


YOUNG   MARY. 

Young  Mary  walked  sadly  down  through  the  green  clover, 
And  sighed  as  she  looked  at  the  babe  at  her  breast ; 

"  My  roses  are  faded,  my  false  love  a  rover. 

The  green  graves  they  call  me,  '  Come  home  to  your 
rest/" 

Then  by  rode  a  soldier  in  gorgeous  arraying. 

And  "  where  is  your  bride-ring,  my  fair  maid ! "  he 
cried ; 

"  I  ne'er  had  a  bride-ring,  by  false  man's  betraying. 
Nor  token  of  love  but  this  babe  at  my  side. 

"  Tho'  gold  could  not  buy  me,  sweet  words  could  deceive 
me; 

So  faithful  and  lonely  till  death  I  must  roam." 
"  O  Mary,  sweet  Mary,  look  up  and  forgive  me. 

With  wealth  and  with  glory  your  true  love  comes  home. 

"  So  give  my  own  babe,  those  soft  arms  adorning, 
I'll  wed  you  and  cherish  you,  never  to  stray ; 

For  it 's  many  a  dark  and  a  wild  cloudy  morning 
Turns  out  by  the  noon-time  a  sunshiny  day." 


THE  MERRY  LARK  WAS  UP  AND   SINGING. 

The  merry,  merry  lark  was  up  and  singing, 

And  the  hare  was  out  and  feeding  on  the  lea. 
And  the  merry,  merry  bells  below  were  ringing. 

When  my  child's  laugh  rang  through  me. 
Now  the  hare  is  snared  and  dead  beside  the  snow-yard, 

And  the  lark  beside  the  dreary  winter  sea. 
And  my  baby  in  his  cradle  in  the  churchyard 

Waiteth  there  until  the  bells  bring  me. 


EPICEDIUM    ON    THE    DEATH    OF    A   CERTAIN 
JOURNAL. 

So  DIE,  thou  child  of  stormy  dawn, 
Thou  winter  flower,  forlorn  of  nurse  ; 
Chilled  early  by  the  bigot's  curse. 
The  pedants  frown,  the  worldlings  yawn. 

Fair  death,  to  fall  in  teeming  June, 
When  every  seed  which  drops  to  earth 
Takes  root,  and  wins  a  second  birth 
From  steaming  shower  and  gleaming  moon. 
Fall  warm,  fall  fast,  thou  mellow  rain ; 
Thou  rain  of  God,  make  fat  the  land ; 
That  roots  which  parch  in  burning  sand 
May  bud  to  flower  and  fruit  again. 

To  grace,  perchance,  a  fairer  morn 
In  mightyr  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
While  honour  falls  to  such  as  we 
From  hearts  of  heroes  yet  unborn. 


EPICEDIUM.  249 

Who  in  the  blaze  of  riper  day 
Of  purer  science,  holier  laws, 
Bless  us,  faint  heralds  of  their  cause, 
Dim  beacons  of  their  glorious  way. 

Failure  ?  While  tide-floods  rise  and  boil 
Round  cape  and  isle,  in  port  and  cove, 
Resistless,  star-led  from  above  : 
Wliat  though  our  tiny  wave  recoil  ? 


A   CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 

It  chanced  upon  the  merry,  merry  Christmas  eve 

I  went  sighing  past  the  church,  across  the  moorland 
dreary — 
"  Oh  !  never  sin  and  want  and  woe  this  earth  will  leave, 
And  the  bells  but  mock  the  wailing  round,  they  sing 
so  cheery. 
How  long,  O  Lord !  how  long  before  Thou  come  again  ? 
Still  in  cellar,  and  in  garret,  and  on  moorland  dreary 
The  orphans  moan,  and  widows  weep,  and  poor  men  toil 
in  vain, 
TiU  the  earth  is  sick  of  hope  deferred,  though  Christ- 
mas bells  be  cheery." 

Then  arose  a  joyous  clamour  from  the  wild  fowl  on  the 
mere, 
Beneath   the  stars,  across  the  snow,  like  clear  bells 
ringing. 
And  a  voice  within  cried — "  Listen  ! — Christmas  carols 
even  here ! 
Though  thou   be  dumb,  yet  o'er  their  work  the  stars 
and  snows  are  singing. 


A    CHRISTMAS    CAROL.  251 

Blind !  I   live,   I   love,   I   reign ;   and   all   the   nations 
through 
With  the  thunder   of  my  judgments  even   now  are 
ringing ; 
Do  thou  fulfil  thy  work,  but  as  yon  wild  fowl  do, 

Thou  wilt  heed  no  less  the  wailing  yet  hear  through  it 
angels'  singing." 


MY    HUNTING    SONG. 

Forward  !  hark  !  forward  's  tlie  cry  ! 
One  more  fence  and  we  're  out  on  the  open  ! 
So  to  us  at  once,  if  you  want  to  live  near  us — 
Follow  them,  hark  to  them,  darlings  !  as  on  they  go, 
Leaping  and  sweeping  ^own  into  the  vaJe  below  ! 
Cowards  and  bunglers  whose  heart  or  whose  eye  is  slow 
Find  themselves  staring  alone. 

So  the  great  cause  flashes  by, 
Nearer  and  clearer  its  purposes  open, 
While  louder  and  louder  the  world-echoes  cheer  us  : 
Gentlemen,  sportsmen,  you  ought  to  live  up  to  us, 
Lift  us  and  lead  us,  and  hallo  our  game  to  us — 
We  cannot  take  the  hounds  off,  and  no  shame  to  us — 
Don't  be  left  staring  alone  ! 


SONGS. 

Ask  if  I  love  thee  ?     Oh  smiles  cannot  tell 
Plainer  what  tears  are  now  showing  too  well. 
Had  I  not  loved  thee,  my  sky  had  been  clear : 
Had  I  not  loved  thee,  I  had  not  been  here. 
Weeping  for  thee ! 

Ask  if  I  love  thee  ?     How  else  could  I  borrow 
Pride  from  man's  calunmy,  strength  from  thy  sorrow  ? 
Laugh  when  they  sneer  at  the  fanatic's  bride 
Knowing  no  bliss,  save  to  toil  and  to  bide 
Weeping  for  thee ! 

II. 

The  world  goes  up  and  the  world  goes  down. 

And  the  sunshine  follows  the  rain  ; 
And  yesterday's  sneer  and  yesterday's  frown 

Can  never  come  over  again. 

Sweet  wife, 

No,  n6ver  come  over  again. 

For  woman  is  warm  though  man  be  cold, 

And  the  night  will  hallow  the  day ; 
Till  the  heai't  which  at  even  was  weary  and  old 

Can  rise  in  the  morning  gay. 

Sweet  wife. 

To  its  work  in  the  morning  gay. 


THE   UGLY  PRINCESS. 


I. 
My  parents  bow  and  lead  them  forth 

For  all  the  crowd  to  see — 
Ah  well !  the  people  might  not  care 

To  cheer  a  dwarf  like  me. 

IT. 

They  little  know  how  I  could  love, 

How  I  could  plan  and  toil, 
To  swell  those  drudges'  scanty  gains. 

Their  mites  of  rye  and  oil. 

III. 
They  little  know  what  dreams  have  been 

My  playmates,  night  and  day  ; 
Of  equal  kindness,  helpful  care, 

A  mother's  perfect  sway. 

IV. 

Now  earth  to  earth  in  convent  walls. 
To  earth  in  churchyard  sod  : 

I  was  not  good  enough  for  man. 
And  so  am  given  to  God. 


A  THOUGHT  FROM   THE    RHINE. 

I  HEARD  an  Eagle  crying  all  alone 

Above  the  vineyards  through  the  summer  night, 

Among  the  skeletons  of  robber  towers, — 

The  iron  homes  of  iron-hearted  lords. 

Now  crumbling  back  to  ruin  year  by  year, — 

Because  the  ancient  eyrie  of  his  race 

Is  trenched  and  walled  by  busy-handed  men, 

And  all  his  forest-chace  and  woodland  wild, 

Wherefrom  he  fed  his  young  with  hare  and  roe, 

Are  trim  with  grapes,  which  swell  from  hour  to  hour 

And  toss  their  golden  tendrils  to  the  sun 

For  joy  at  their  own  riches  : — So,  I  thought. 

The  great  devourers  of  the  earth  shall  sit, 

Idle  and  impotent,  they  know  not  why, 

Down-staring  from  their  barren  height  of  state 

On  nations  grown  too  wise  to  slay  and  slave. 

The  puppets  of  the  few,  while  peaceful  love 

And  fellow-help  make  glad  the  heart  of  earth, 

With  wonders  which  they  fear  and  hate,  as  he 

The  Eagle  hates  the  vineyard  slopes  below. 


SONNET. 

The  baby  sings  not  on  its  mother's  breast — 

Nor  nightingales  who  nestle  side  by  side — 

Nor  I  by  thine  :  but  let  us  only  part, 

Then  lips  which  should  but  kiss  and  so  be  still, 

As  having  uttered  all,  must  speak  again. — 

Oh  stunted  thoughts  !     Oh  chill  and  fettered  rhyme  ! 

YQt  my  great  bliss,  though  still  entirely  blest, 

Losing  its  proper  home  can  find  no  rest  : 

So — like  a  child  who  whiles  away  the  time 

With  dance  and  carol  till  the  eventide, 

Watching  its  mother  homeward  through  the  glen  ; 

Or  nightingale,  who  sitting  far  apart. 

Tells  to  his  listening  mate  within  the  nest 

The  wonder  of  his  star-entranced  heart 

Till  all  the  wakened  woodlands  laugh  and  thrill — 

Forth  all  my  being  bubbles  into  song. 

And  rings  aloft,  not  smooth,  yet  clear  and  strong. 


BALLADS 


17 


BALLADS 


A.  D.  415. 


Over  the  camp-fires 
Drank  I  with  heroes, 
Under  the  Donau  bank 
Warm  in  the  snow-trench : 
Sagamen  heard  I  there, 
Men  of  the  Longbeards, 
Cunning  and  ancient, 
Honey-sweet-voiced. 
Scaring  the  wolf  cub, 
Scaring  the  horn-owl  out. 
Shaking  the  snow-wreaths 
Down  from  the  pine-boughs, 
Up  to  the  star-roof 
Rang  out  their  song. 
Singing  how  Winil  men, 
Over  the  ice-floes 
Sledging  from  Scanland  on 
Came  unto  Scoring ; 
Singing  of  Gambara    , 


260  A.  D.  415. 


Freja's  beloved, 

Mother  of  Ayo, 

Mother  of  Ibor. 

Singing  of  Wendel  men, 

Ambri  and  Assi ; 

How  to  the  Winilfolk 

Went  they  with  war-words, — 

"  Few  are  ye,  strangers. 

And  many  are  we  ; 

Pay  us  now  toll  and  fee, 

Clothyarn,  and  rings,  and  beeves ; 

Else  at  the  raven's  meal 

Bide  the  sharp  bill's  doom." 

Clutching  the  dwarf's  work,  then. 
Clutching  the  bullock's  shell. 
Girding  gray  iron  on, 
Forth  fared  the  Winils  all. 
Fared  the  Alruna's  sons, 
Ayo  and  Ibor. 
Mad  of  heart  stalked  they : 
Loud  wept  the  women  all, 
Loud  wept  the  Alruna  wife ; 
Sore  was  their  need. 

Out  of  the  morning  land. 
Over  the  snow-drifts. 
Beautiful  Freya  came. 
Tripping- to  Scoring. 


A.  D.  415.  261 

White  were  the  moorlands 

And  frozen  before  her ; 

But  green  were  the  moorlands, 

And  blooming  behind  her, 

Out  of  her  golden  locks 

Shaking  the  spring  flowers, 

Out  of  her  garments 

Shaking  the  south  wind. 

Around  in  the  birches 

Awaking  the  throstles, 

And  making  chaste  housewives  all 

Long  for  their  heroes  home, 

Loving  and  love-giving, 

Came  she  to  Scoring. 

Came  unto  Gambara, 

Wisest  of  Valas, — 

"  Vala,  why  weepest  thou  ? 

Far  in  the  wide-blue, 

High  up  in  the  Elfin-home, 

Heard  I  thy  weeping." 

"  Stop  not  my  weeping, 

Till  one  can  fight  seven. 

Sons  have  I,  heroes  tall. 

First  in  the  sword-play ; 

This  day  at  the  Wendels'  hands 

Eagles  must  tear  them ; 

While  their  mothers,  thrall-weary. 

Must  grind  for  the  Wendels." 


262  A.  D.  415. 


Wept  the  Alruna  wife  ; 

Kissed  her  fair  Freya :  — 

"  Far  off  in  the  morning  land, 

High  in  Valhalla, 

A  window  stands  open 

Its  sill  is  the  snow-peaks, 

Its  posts  are  the  water-spouts, 

Storm-rack  its  lintel ; 

Gold  cloud-flakes  above  it 

Are  piled  for  the  roofing. 

Far  up  to  the  Elfin-home, 

High  in  the  wide-blue. 

Smiles  out  each  morning  thence 

Odin  Allfather ; 

From  under  the  cloud-eaves 

Smiles  out  on  the  heroes, 

Smiles  out  on  chaste,  housewives  all. 

Smiles  on  the  brood-mares, 

Smiles  on  the  smiths'  work : 

And  theirs  is  the  sword-luck. 

With  them  is  the  glory, — 

So  Odin  hath  sworn  it, — 

Who  first  in  the  morning 

Shall  meet  him  and  greet  him." 

Still  the  Alruna  wept :  — 

"  Who  then  shall  greet  him  ? 

Women  alone  are  here  : 

Far  on  the  moorlands 

Behind  the  war-hndens. 


A.  D.  415.  203 

In  vain  for  the  bill's  doom 

Watch  Winil  heroes  all, 

One  against  seven." 

Sweetly  the  Queen  laughed  :  — 

"  Hear  thou  my  counsel  now  ; 

Take  to  thee  cunning, 

Beloved  of  Freya. 

Take  thou  thy  women-folk, 

Maidens  and  wives : 

Over  your  ankles 

Lace  on  the  white  war-hose  ; 

Over  your  bosoms 

Link  up  the  hard  mail-nets ; 

Over  your  lips 

Plait  long  tresses  with  cunning ;  — 

So  war-beasts  full-bearded 

King  Odin  shall  deem  you, 

When  off  the  gray  sea-beach 

At  sunrise  ye  greet  him." 

Night's  son  was  driving 
His  golden -haired  horses  up  ; 
Over  the  eastern  firths 
High  flashed  their  manes. 
Smiled  from  the  cloud-eaves  out 
Allfather  Odin, 
Waiting  the  battle-sport : 
Freya  stood  by  him. 


264  A.  D.  415. 

"  Who  are  these  heroes  tall, — 
Lusty-limbed  Longbeards  ? 
Over  the  swans'  bath 
Why  cry  they  to  me  ? 
Bones  should  be  crashing  fast, 
Wolves  should  be  full-fed, 
Where'er  such,  mad-hearted, 
Swing  hands  in  the  sword-play." 

Sweetly  laughed  Freya  :  — 
"  A  name  thou  hast  given  them 
Shames  neither  thee  nor  them, 
Well  can  they  wear  it. 
Give  them  the  victory, 
First  have  they  greeted  thee  ; 
Give  them  the  victory. 
Yokefellow  mine  I 
Maidens  and  wives  are  these, — 
Wives  of  the  Winils  ; 
Few  are  their  heroes 
And  far  on  the  war-road. 
So  over  the  swans'  bath 
They  cry  unto  thee." 

Royally  laughed  he  then  ; 
Dear  was  that  craft  to  him, 
Odin  Allfather, 
Shaking  the  clouds. 


A.  D.  415.  2(jo 


"  Cunning  are  women  all, 
Bold  and  importunate  ! 
Longbeards  their  name  shall  be, 
Ravens  shall  thank  them : 
Where  the  women  are  heroes, 
What  must  the  men  be  like  ? 
Theirs  is  the  victory ; 
No  need  of  me  !  "  * 


*  This  punning  legend  may  be  seen  in  Paul  "Warn^frid's  Gesta 
LangdKirdonim.  Unfortunately,  however,  for  the  story,  Langbardr 
is  said  by  the  learned  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  beards  at  all,  but 
probably  to  mean  "  Longswords."  The  metre  and  language  are 
intended  as  imitations  of  those  of  the  earlier  Eddaic  poems. 


A.  D.  1100. 

Evil  sped  the  battle  play 
On  the  Pope  Calixtus'  day, 
Mighty  war-smiths,  thanes  and  lords, 
In  Sangelac  slept  the  sleep  of  swords, 
Harold  Earl  shot  over  shield, 
Lay  along  the  autumn  weald  ; 
Slaughter  such  was  never  none 
Since  the  Ethelings  England  won. 

Thither  Lady  Githa  came. 
Weeping  sore  for  grief  and  shame. 
How  may  she  her  first-born  tell  ? 
Frenchmen  stript  him  where  he  fell, 
Gashed  and  marred  his  comely  face. 
Who  can  know  him  in  his  place  ? 

Up  and  spake  two  brethren  wise, 
"  Youngest  hearts  have  keenest  eyes  ; 
Bird  which  leaves  its  mother's  nest, 
Moults  its  pinion,  moults  its  crest. 
Let  us  call  the  Swan-neck  here. 
She  that  was  his  lemman  dear. 
She  shall  know  him  in  his  stound  ; 
Foot  of  colt,  and  scent  of  hound. 
Eye  of  hawk,  and  wing  of  dove. 
Carry  woman  to  her  love." 


A.  D.  1100.  267 

Up  and  spake  the  Swan-neck  high, 
"  Go  !  to  all  your  thanes,  let  cry 
How  I  loved  him  best  of  all, 
I  whom  men  his  lemman  call ; 
Better  knew  liis  body  fair 
Than  the  mother,  which  him  bare. 
When  ye  lived  in  health  and  glee 
Then  ye  scorned  to  look  on  me  ; 
God  hath  brought  the  proud  ones  tow 
After  me  afoot  to  go." 

Rousing  erne,  and  sallow  glede. 
Rousing  gray-wolf  off  his  feed, 
Over  franklin,  earl,  and  thane. 
Heaps  of  mother-naked  slain  ; 
Round  the  red  field  tracing  slow. 
Stooped  that  swan-neck  white  as  snow  ; 
Never  blushed,  nor  turned  away, 
Till  she  found  him  where  he  lay. 
Clipt  him  in  her  armes  fair, 
Wrapt  him  in  her  yellow  hair, 
Bore  him  from  the  battle-stead, 
Saw  him  laid  in  pall  of  lead, 
Took  her  to  a  minster  high. 
For  Earl  Harold's  soul  to  cry. 

Thus  fell  Harold,  bracelet-giver ; 
Jesu  rest  his  soul  forever  ; 
Angels  all  from  thrall  deliver ; 
Miserere  Domine. 


A.  D.  1400. 

I. 

It  was  Earl  Haldan's  daughter 
She  look'd  across  the  sea ; 
She  look'd  across  the  water, 
And  long  and  loud  laugh'd  she : 
"  The  locks  of  six  princesses 
Must  be  my  marriage-fee, 
So  hey  bonny  boat,  and  ho  bonny  boat  ! 
Who  comes  a-wooing  me  !  " 

II. 

It  was  Earl  Haldan's  daughter, 
She  walked  along  the  sand  ; 
When  she  was  aware  of  a  knight  so  fair, 
Come  sailing  to  the  land. 
His  sails  were  all  of  velvet, 
His  mast  of  beaten  gold. 
And  "  hey  bonny  boat,  and  ho  bonny  boat, 
Who  saileth  here  so  bold  ?  " 


m. 


"  The  locks  of  five  princesses 
I  won  beyond  the  sea  ; 
I  shore  their  golden  tresses, 
To  fringe  a  cloak  for  thee. 


A.  D.  1400.  209 

One  handfull  yet  is  wanting, 
But  one  of  all  the  tale  ; 
So  hey  bonny  boat,  and  ho  bonny  boat ! 
Furl  up  thy  velvet  sail ! " 

IV. 

He  leapt  into  the  water. 
That  rover  young  and  bold  ; 
He  gript  Earl  Haldan's  daughter, 
He  shore  her  locks  of  gold ; 
"  Go  weep,  go  weep,  proud  maiden. 
The  tale  is  full  to-day. 
Now  hey  bonny  boat,  and  ho  bonny  boat ! 
Sail  Westward  ho,  and  away ! " 


A.  D.   1500. 

Oh,  I  wadna  be  a  yeoman,  mither,  to  follow  my  father's 

trade. 
To  bow  my  back  in  miry  fallows,  over  plow  and  hoe 

and  spade. 
Stinting  wife,  and  bairns,  and  kye,  to  fat  some  courtier 

lord, — 
Let  them  die  o'  rent  wha  like,  mither,  and  I'll  die  by 

sword. 

Nor  I  wadna  be  a  clerk,  mither,  to  bide  aye  ben. 
Scrabbling  over  sheets  o'  parchment  with  a  weery,  weery 

pen. 
Looking  through  the  lang  stane  windows   at  a  narrow 

strip  o'  sky. 
Like  a  laverock  in  a  withy  cage,  until  I  pine  away  and 

die. 
Nor  I  wadna  be  a  merchant,  mither,  in  his  lang   furred 

gown. 
Trailing   strings  o'  footsore   horses   through    the   noisy 

dusty  town ; 
Louting  low  to  knights  and  ladies,  fumbling  o'er  his  wares, 
Telling  lies,  and  scraping  siller,  heaping  cares  on  cares. 


A.  D.  1500.  271 

Nor  I  wadna  be  a  soldier,  mither,  to  dice  wi'  ruffian 

bands, 
Pining  weery  months  in  castles,  looking  over  wasted  lands, 
Smoking  byres,  and  shrieking  women,  and  the  grewsome 

sights  o'  war — 
There  's  blood  on  my  hand  enough,  mither ;  it's  ill  to 

make  it  mair. 

If  I  had  married  a  wife,  mither,  I  might  ha'  been  douce 

and  still. 
And  sat  at  hame  by  the  ingle  side  to  crack  and  laugh  my 

fill; 
Sat  at  hame  wi'  the  woman  I  looed,  and  baimies  at  my 

knee, 
But  death  is  bauld,  and  age  is  cauld,  and  luve's  no  for  me. 

For  when  first  I  stirred  in  your  side,  mither,  ye  ken  full 

well 
How  you  lay  all  night  up  among  the  deer  on  the  open 

fell; 
And  so   it  was  that  I  got  the  heart  to  wander  far  and 

neer. 
Caring  neither  for  land  nor  lassie,  but  the  bonny  dun 

deer. 

Yet  I  am  not  a  losel  and  idle,  mither,  nor  a  thief  that 

steals  ; 
I  do  but  hunt  God's  cattle,  upon  God's  ain  hills ; 
For  no  man  buys  and  sells  the  deer,  and  the  fells  are  free 


272  A.  D.  1500. 

To  a  knight  that  carries  hawk  and  spurs,  and  a  hind 
like  me. 

So  I'm  aff  and  away  to  the  muirs,  mither,  to  hunt  the 

deer. 
Ranging  far  fra  frowning  faces,  and  the  douce  folk  here  ; 
Crawling  up  through  burn  and  bracken,  louping  madly 

down  the  screes, 
Speering  out  fra'  craig  and  headland,  di-inking  up  the 

Simmer  breeze. 

Oh,  the  wafts  o'  heather  honey,  and  the  music  o'  the  brae, 
As  I  watch  the  great  harts  feeding,  nearer,  nearer  a'  the 

day! 
Oh,  to  hark  the  eagle  screaming,  sweeping,  ringing  round 

the  sky !  — 
That 's  a  bonnier  life  than  stumbling  owr'e  the  muck  to 

hog  and  kye. 

And  when  I'm  taen  and  hangit,  mither,  a  brittling  o'  my 

deer, 
Ye'U  no  leave  your  bairn  to  the  corbie  craws  to  dangle 

in  the  air ; 
But  ye'll  send  up  my  twa  douce  brethren,  and  ye'll  steal 

me  fra  the  tree, 
And  bury  me  up  on  the  brown,  brown  muirs,  where    I 

aye  loved  to  be. 

Ye'll  bury  me  'twixt  the  brae  and  the  burn,  in  a  glen  far 
away, 


A.  D.  1500.  273 

Where  I  may  hear  the  heathcock  craw,  and  the  great 

harts  bray ; 
And  if  my  ghaist  can  walk,  mither,  I'll  sit  glowering  at 

the  sky. 
The  live  long  night  on  the  black  hill  sides  where  the  dun 

deer  lie. 


18 


A.  D.  1580. 

Ah  tyrant  Love,  Mega&ra's  serpents  bearing, 

Why  thus  requite  my  sighs  with  venom'd  smart  ? 
Ah,  ruthless  dove,  the  vuUure's  talons  wearing. 

Why  flesh  them,  traitress,  in  this  faithful  heart  ? 
Is  this  my  meed  ?     Must  dragon's  teeth  alone 

In  Venus'  lawns  by  lovers'  hands  be  sown  ? 
Nay,  gentlest  Cupid ;  'twas  my  pride  unbid  me ; 

Nay,  guiltless  dove ;  by  mine  own  wound  I  fell. 
To  worship,  not  to  wed.  Celestials  bid  me  : 

I  dreamt  to  mate  in  heaven,  and  wake  in  hell ; 
Forever  doom'd,  Ixion-like,  to  reel 

On  mine  own  passions'  ever-burning  wheel. 


A.  D.  1740. 

I. 

Oh  England  is  a  pleasant  place  for  them  that 's  rich  and 

high; 
But  England  is  a  cruel  place  for  such  poor  folks  as  I ; 
And  such  a  port  for  mariners  I  ne'er  shall  see  again, 
As  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Aves,  beside  the  Spanish  main. 

n. 
There  were  forty  craft  in  Aves  that  were  both  swift  and 

stout, 
All  furnished  well  with  small  arms  and  cannons  round 

about ; 
And  a  thousand  men  in  Aves  made  laws  so  fair  and  free 
To  choose  their  valiant  captains  and  obey  them  loyally. 

III. 
Thence  we  sailed  against  the  Spaniard  with  his  hoai-ds 

of  plate  and  gold, 
Which  he  wrung  by  cruel  tortures  from  the  Indian  folk 

of  old ; 
Likewise  the  merchant  captains,  with  hearts  as  hard  as 

stone. 
Which  flog  men  and  keel-haul  them  and  starve  them  to 

the  bone. 


276  A.  D.  1740. 

IV. 

Oh  the  palms  grew  high  in  Aves  and  fruits  that  shone 

like  gold, 
And  the  colibris  and  parrots    they  were    gorgeous   to 

behold  ; 
And  the  negro  maids  to  Aves  from  bondage  fast  did 

flee, 
To  welcome  gallant  sailors  a  sweeping  in  from  sea. 

V. 

Oh  sweet  it  was  in  Aves  to  hear  the  landward  breeze 
A-swing  with  good  tobacco  in  a  net  between  the  trees. 
With  a  negro  lass  to  fan  you  while  you  listened  to  the 

roar 
Of  the  breakers  on  the  reef  outside  that  never  touched 

the  shore. 

VI. 

But  Scripture  saith,  an  ending  to  all  fine  things  must  be, 
So  the  King's  ships  sailed  on  Aves  and  quite  put  down 

were  we. 
All  day  we  fought  like  bulldogs,  but  they  burst  the  booms 

at  night ; 
And  I  fled  in  a  piragua  sore  wounded  from  the  fight. 

VII. 

Nine  days  I  floated  starving,  and  a  negro  lass  beside, 
TiU  for  all  I  tried  to  cheer  her,  the  poor  young  thing  she 

died ; 
But  as  I  lay  a  gasping  a  Bristol  sail  came  by, 
And  brought  me  home  to  England  here  to  beg  untU  I  die. 


A.  D.  1740.  277 

VIII. 

And  now  I'm  old  and  going  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  where ; 
One  comfort  is  this  world 's  so  hard  I  can't  be  worse  off 

there : 
If  I  might  but  be  a  sea-dove  I'd  fly  across  the  main, 
To  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Aves,  to  look  at  it  once  again. 


A.  D.  1848. 

The  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping 

Over  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
Where  the  clover  and  corn  lay  sleeping 

Under  the  moonhght  still. 

Leaping  late  and  early, 

Till  under  their  bite  and  their  tread 
The  swedes,  and  the  wheat,  and  the  barley. 

Lay  cankered,  and  trampled  and  dead. 

A  poacher's  widow  sat  sighing 

On  the  side  of  the  white  chalk  bank, 

Where  under  the  gloomy  fir-woods 
One  spot  in  the  ley  throve  rank. 

She  watched  a  long  tuft  of  clover. 
Where  rabbit  or  hare  never  ran  ; 

For  its  black  sour  haulm  covered  over 
The  blood  of  a  murdered  man 


A.  D.  1843.  279 

She  thought  of  the  dark  plantation, 

And  the  hares,  and  her  husband's  blood. 

And  the  voice  of  her  indignation 
Rose  up  to  the  throne  of  God. 

"  I  am  long  past  wailing  and  whining — 

I  have  wept  too  much  in  my  life  : 
I've  had  twenty  years  of  pining 

As  an  English  labourer's  wife. 

A  labourer  in  Christian  England, 

Where  they  cant  of  a  Saviour's  name, 

And  yet  waste  men's  lives  like  the  vetmin's 
For  a  few  more  brace  of  game. 

There 's  blood  on  your  new  foreign  shrubs,  squire, 
There 's  blood  on  your  pointers'  feet ; 

There 's  blood  on  the  game  you  sell,  squire, 
And  there 's  blood  on  the  game  you  eat. 

You  have  sold  the  labouring-man,  squire, 

Body  and  soul  to  shame. 
To  pay  for  your  seat  in  the  House,  squire. 

And  to  pay  for  the  feed  of  your  game. 

You  made  him  a  poacher  yourself,  squire, 
Wlien  you'd  give  neither  work  nor  meat, 

And  your  barley-fed  hares  robbed  the  garden 
At  our  starving  children's  feet ; 


280  A.  D.  1848. 

When  packed  in  one  reeking  chamber, 
Man,  maid,  mother,  and  little  ones  lay ; 

While  the  rain  pattered  in  on  the  rotting  bride-bed. 
And  the  walls  let  in  the  day  ; 

When  we  lay  in  the  burning  fever 
On  the  mud  of  the  cold  clay  floor, 

Till  you  parted  us  all  for  three  months,  squire, 
At  the  cursed  workhouse-door. 

We  quarrelled  like  brutes,  and  who  wonders  ? 

What  self-respect  could  we  keep. 
Worse  housed  than  your  hacks  and  your  pointers. 

Worse  fed  than  your  hogs  and  your  sheep  ? 

Our  daughters  with  base-born  babies 
Have  wandered  away  in  their  shame ; 

If  your  misses  had  slept,  squire,  where  they  did. 
Your  misses  might  do  the  same. 

Can  your  lady  patch  hearts  that  are  breaking 

With  handfuls  of  coals  and  rice. 
Or  by  dealing  out  flannel  and  sheeting 

A  little  below  cost  price  ? 

You  may  tire  of  the  jail  and  the  workhouse. 
And  take  to  allotments  and  schools. 

But  you  've  run  up  a  debt  that  will  never 
Be  repaid  us  by  penny-club  rules. 


A.  D.  1848.  281 

In  the  season  of  shame  and  sadness, 

In  the  dark  and  dreary  day, 
When  scrofula,  gout,  and  madness. 

Are  eatmg  your  race  away ; 

When  to  kennels  and  liveried  varlets 
You  have  cast  your  daughters*  bread, 

And,  worn  out  with  liquor  and  harlots. 
Your  heir  at  your  feet  lies  dead ; 

When  your  youngest,  the  mealy-mouthed  rector, 
Lets  your  soul  rot  asleep  to  the  grave. 

You  will  find  in  your  God  the  protector 
Of  the  freeman  you  fancied  your  slave." 

She  looked  at  the  tuft  of  clover. 
And  wept  till  her  heart  grew  light ; 

And  at  last  when  her  passion  was  over. 
Went  wanderinoj  into  the  night. 

But  the  merry  brown  hares  came  leaping 

Over  the  uplands  still. 
Where  the  clover  and  corn  lay  sleeping 

On  the  side  of  the  white  chalk  hill. 


PEOPLE'S   SONG,    1849. 


Weep,  weep,  weep  and  weep. 
For  pauper,  dolt,  and  slave ! 
Hark  from  wasted  moor  and  fen, 
Feverous  alley,  workhouse  den. 
Swells  the  wail  of  Saxon  men — 
"Work  !  or  the  grave ! 

II. 

Down,  down,  down  and  down 
With  idler,  knave,  and  tyrant ! 
Why  for  sluggards  cark  and  moil  ? 
He  that  will  not  live  by  toil 
Has  no  right  on  English  soil ! 
God's  word  our  warrant ! 

III. 

Up,  up,  up  and  up ! 

Face  your  game  and  play  it ! 

The  night  is  past,  behold  the  sun  ! — 

The  idols  fall,  the  lie  is  done — 

The  Judge  is  set,  the  doom  begun ! 

Who  shall  stay  it  ? 


THE   DAY   OF   THE   LORD. 

The  Day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand,  at  hand  ! 

Its  storms  roll  up  the  sky : 
A  nation  sleeps  starving  on  heaps  of  gold; 

All  dreamers  toss  and  sigh ; 
The  night  is  darkest  before  the  dawn — 
When  the  pain  is  sorest  the  child  is  born, 

And  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  angels  of  God — 

Freedom,  and  Mercy,  and  Truth ; 
Come  !  for  the  Earth  is  grown  coward  and  old — 

Come  down  and  renew  us  her  youth. 
Wisdom,  Self-sacrifice,  Daring,  and  Love, 
Haste  to  the  battle-field,  stoop  from  above. 

To  the  Day  t)f  the  Lord  at  hand. 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  hounds  of  hell — 

Famine,  and  Plague,  and  War ; 
Idleness,  Bigotry,  Cant,  and  Msrule, 

Gather,  and  fall  in  the  snare  ! 
Hirelings  and  Mammonites,  Pedants  and  Knaves, 
Crawl  to  the  battle-field — sneak  to  your  graves, 
In  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 


284  THE    DAT    OF    THE    LORD. 

Who  would  sit  down  and  sigh  for  a  lost  age  of  gold, 
While  the  Lord  of  all  ages  is  here  ? 

True  hearts  will  leap  up  at  the  trumpet  of  God, 
And  those  who  can  suffer,  can  dare. 

Each  old  age  of  gold  was  an  iron  age  too, 

And  the  meekest  of  saints  may  find  stern  work  to  do. 
In  the  Day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 


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